Anthropocaust
by Rip Bulkeley
Cassandra never smiled. Devastation,
though future for others, was her constant
reality. En route to the death camps
people were still together, had luggage,
and could try to look forward. Even after
being stripped and selected, there may
have been distractions, conversation;
but oven fodder did not smile.
Our delusions are the disgraceful
mystery of these times: wars, festivals,
work, murders, pets, vaccines, shopping,
charities, music, and so unbelievably on.
Meanwhile the human vehicle is colliding
with signposts, shedding fenders against walls;
its tyres are fiery Catherine wheels. But we,
the passengers, turn inwards to shut out
the calamity we have long invited
and do not intend to overcome.
The climate campaigners offer comfort
to some who despair, suggesting they turn
away for respite with the fantasies of life.
It comes naturally from those who must
self-deceive about the power of governments.
But no wonder that so many others
are still preparing for fulfilment,
falling in love, making homes,
and sharing their enthusiasms
for every variety of sport.
