In the future We all get new faces sutured Onto our old faces; And you can change them on a weekly basis (that is, if you can afford it.) And so (you can imagine) we've all kinds of sordid Soirees at matinees, The races, And other public places - At rendezvous over imported Brows, lips, cheeks (everyone speaks Highly now of the romanesque, but it was traces Of the Greek Just last week.) - Man! It's the life! A drunk girl shimmies up to you at the Dôme, Whispers: last week when you took me home - Remember? You were Keats And I was Shelley, and places Her hand on your groin (though now you're Blake And she's some blonde Frau Goering, Or something such; a little boring, And identityless and plasticky-fake After too much dancing with the knife - ) - Jesus! It's the life! It's wearing anonymity like tangled sheets, Like week-old briefs (that is, we all wear 'em - But it's not something you advertise;) It's cigarette-tasting cold mornings, the harem Smell of disinterest, a stranger snoring And yourself a stranger (and yes, probably boring;) It's endless meaningless greetings and goodbyes; And the peculiar surprise Sometimes of waking Up and finding you've been making Love with your own wife.