Those who carry nothing within
are forced
to decorate the outside.
And since no thought
drips from them,
they exhibit their skin—
for skin
is the last temple
of the empty.
Ah—
these preachers
of the ring-light and lens,
how desperate they are
to be seen—
for they do not
see themselves.
They do not live—
they lodge
inside moments,
and each of their smiles
is like a notice
of a thought’s death.
The hollower the inside,
the sharper the pose;
the quieter the mind,
the louder the ad.
They do not think—
they accumulate.
In place of conscience—
metrics.
In place of soul—
algorithm.
In place of worth—
likes.
They say:
“I inspire.”
But their inspiration
is nothing
but the yawn of repetition;
and their followers—
a crowd
that with every click
forgets
a little more
of itself.
In an age
where thought
no longer sells,
the body
becomes philosophy.
And what a catastrophe—
when the whore
names herself
“god,”
and the spectator
kneels.
From Poems of Madness
Ali Delshad Tehrani