Decadence is a real thing.
We’ve seen it, with our own eyes.
But our eyes become blind to the things we
European decadence leaves a trail…
A trail of leaves in a rusty park
Is something eternal. But the people are
Thanking their lucky stars. Stars? Yes
Don’t think they have aligned and colluded for you
You are the residue, the growth inside
The festering tub. And the tub has to be
Washed out every once in a while.
But before this, there is
It is in this that we may set a scene.
Children in white, crosses round their necks
Run from Chapel to the fountain square,
Catholics give wine to their children, but only on a Sunday.
Disgrace can be decadence, but it’s not always. So the woman who
Champagne’s in the morning and wanders the high
Streets at midday is feckless. But we can allow for it.
She’s forgotten her Chinese handbag,
And it’s not even
Meanwhile, men on scooters begin to think the Colosseum
Was made just for them. It’s not a monument to a
Fallen empire. It IS a falling empire, funded by gift
Shops, German tax dollars, Scandinavian exchange rates.
The sun beats down, as ever – or so
We’re told. Everybody likes a little pizza.
And that gorgeous piano is there in the apartment block
But nobody can play it. Many who did
Play have forgotten – and the young today?
Well, they’re concerned about their hair coming through,
Electronic drugs, loves, and getting through tired,
Old religious practices, than learning the piano.
This is what European decadence sounds like, to both ears.
A failed composition, but with the machine
That engineers it’s existence still turned on. Gas is on low.
Except for the gas of the chatter about class,
And good breakfast places, the secret loves of
Mary the receptionist, and do you think
That name will last forever?