David Fine
hey Britney
Cultural detritus
falls unnoticed. Philosophers
nibble at big ideas,
quote high art. They
turn off the radio, alienate theories from reality
TV. Yet
while priests polish silver
and the learned rub bourgeois backs
(conciliatory to their dollars, ever
assuaging their dreams)
popular poets craft consciousness.
Their creations bomp, bump, pump
from the boom boom
boom boxes
of the uninspired, spew
from the BK-have-it-your-way TV sets
of the banal. The children gather at Britney's feet
to listen: With a taste of your lips, I'm on a ride.
You're toxic. I'm slipping under.
An ontological underwire
props up Britney's bustier. She starddles
a man in her underwear
in front of thirty thousand people. Nothing
comes from nothing: with a taste of poison paradise,
I'm addicted to you. My sisters
watch an incarnation of the death of God.
Don't you know
that you're toxic?
Aristotle's not the only one with a metaphysics;
listen to the music:
you and me baby ain't nothing but mammals...
living in a material
world.
Call it kitsch;
call it shit;
just don't call it irrelevant.
The time has come to chase her out of the city.