For Colette
Poetry by Blair Ewing
I am a cold-fingered capitalist of the soul.
My hot investments pimp your future.
Your future waves me in,
my favourite maze. In here,
the stillborn wish for any old age.
And what they've named madness
I call ecstasy: quivering in the sweat
of last night's rave. All this currency
twists as casually as green shadows of
sea-foam in my hand, confounded.
I love a cause with interest:
all my pints of flesh compounded.
Let me tell you one of History's errors:
Marx should have been a banker and a lover.