John Halladay
Your Country is the Past
You recognise this place.
You are in a country as beautiful as Bavaria
with people who are as ugly as Bavarians.
Perhaps you are reliving the worst weekends of your life
in intimate hotels, south of perdition;
matching pencils and a choice of water -
stale or compost - spaced between
mission statements and a failed affair.
The past stinks of vinegar.
You lack all idea of shame.
Tonight there will be wine,
for which you will not have to pay;
afterwards a presentation.
Your hands are not used to work.
Despite being honest you are forced to lie.
Your voice doesn't have the rhythm of language,
only the mewl of protest.
In pretence of a fast
you have subsisted on bread and a pear.
You think of an adolescent vow:
to endow with your hands and your generation
the oldest vineyard
in a new universe.
It would exist for your children
but you have taught your children
only what not to be.
You are in a country as beautiful as Bavaria
with people who are as ugly as Bavarians.
Perhaps you are reliving the worst weekends of your life
in intimate hotels, south of perdition;
matching pencils and a choice of water -
stale or compost - spaced between
mission statements and a failed affair.
The past stinks of vinegar.
You lack all idea of shame.
Tonight there will be wine,
for which you will not have to pay;
afterwards a presentation.
Your hands are not used to work.
Despite being honest you are forced to lie.
Your voice doesn't have the rhythm of language,
only the mewl of protest.
In pretence of a fast
you have subsisted on bread and a pear.
You think of an adolescent vow:
to endow with your hands and your generation
the oldest vineyard
in a new universe.
It would exist for your children
but you have taught your children
only what not to be.
Page(s) 124
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