A Sex Pistol Ending Poem by Julia Luber

We don't flow from room to spacious room, admiring views,
and sensually touching our pale soft redemptive bed sheets-
soliloquizing sleep and dreams, pouring forth flowers and pungent
trees. We don't feel in an enlightened state of transcendental calm,
enjoying the quiet like an infant napping, gazing out upon the swaying
palm.We don't approach each bill with delight, like we'd actually prefer
to pay double and get a sense of sublime carefree in the otherwise state
of a supreme bubble. Enjoying that we have far too much while as well
breathing in and being titillated by our good fortune, blessing and good luck.
We don't know of this 'world' that exists in your mind- where the music is
float like and the loving beyond earth's sublime. We don't know what the mag-
niloquence of the exquisite sunset is actually referring to as a style of life.
We had no idea that she was supposed to, before being contaminated, be your wife.
We don't live in this resource of your fantasies, where love is sweet and there's no
such thing as a true unforgivable scummy sleaze. But nor do we live in the world
where we truly know of and acknowledge one. We are far above that kind of desperation
to know where a murderer is, to know who is a scum. We are twinkling in life in many
fantastic ways, but we do not quench every penny's value out of whatever we can save.
And we don't save as spending loans in advance. Our earmarks are more like simply
fitting into our pants. We don't over do it in avengement of some rotten shit. We don't
live in a future we might never see, touching the splendor of our sheets in pleasure,
buying a monkey to swing from a tree. We don't live in a mind of flights of fancy,
only to survive something likely more to end like Sid and Nancy.