Ink Tea Stone Leaf

Picture all of the pop stars, every one
as they appear today, or on the day they died,
running naked through the Atacama desert
(this is not an exercise in sexual fantasy)
their bare feet blistering on the rocks and sand,
backs and faces scorched and sweaty (I repeat,
this is not an exercise in sexual fantasy),
subsisting only on droplets of thin morning fog.

Picture Frank Sinatra’s old blue eyes
and old withered legs in unison, fixed on reaching
whatever lies across the waste; picture all of
the pretty young things in sync with Dua Lipa,
every body lewdly bounces to rhythms of freedom
pursued, their sore feet are striking the earth as one,
a terrible parade of flesh stretched tight across
a drum as dry as ever was beaten for a march.

Picture Harry Styles, because you’ve come this far
and he’s been bitten by a snake (and I repeat,
this is not an exercise in sexual fantasy);
you see him writhing like Laocoön and sons
with venom burning in his veins, but still he keeps
in step with Prince and Elton John, who’ve each survived
a dozen on this wild Chilean marathon
and never fainted or been trampled by the herd.

Picture whoever you like in front, for strictly speaking
this is not a race; that would suggest that any
soul among them knows what bright treasure draws
them hard across the parched plains, or spares a thought
for any trails of blood they leave to dry beneath
the sun for the sake of art, or senses the thousand tireless
whips and lashes slashing at their raw heels
(and do I really have to say it once again?)