The P.C. Eats My Brain


The P.C. eats my brain,
the corpses in the living-room
nod awake: another nerve expires.

I do not complain.
Such fantasies of doom
fail to aid the other liars.

You think you are satisfied
with what’s electric; your city
friends, and their mutual hatred.

This is no more than
speculation:
few rise to it, though you try.

Pull back the covers: even
your skeleton stays
cold and still and naked.

©Dean Baker

©All Rights Reserved
deanbakerpoetryandsongs.com

“Dean is a combination of thought and torment that has made him write more than a baker’s dozen of fine poems.. he might produce a collection that could astound us all.” – Irving Layton, (“Canada’s greatest poet”- Leonard Cohen), nominated twice for the Nobel Prize for Literature.

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