What seas what mountains what planets
Or a honeymoon cottage on an exotic isle
with a bride on hire to suck the lust
What car what villa what gadget
Or a smorgasbord spread out in paradise
Where does it end, this pursuit?
How many millions or billions should the bank balance be
How many villas and hectares will this body need
How many parties bacchanalian and rumbustious
Before I hear the music in the background?
Note: This is the first poem I've written in years. Maybe, when you sit idle with your foot caged in plaster of Paris poetry forces itself into your soul. I have an excuse, however, for letting poetry make this forceful entry: I was reading something on philosopher Schopenhauer who thought that a man who has no mental life goes greedily from sensation to sensation in search of happiness and at last he/she is conquered by the nemesis of the idle rich or the reckless voluptuary - ennui.