Caviar Dream

I sailed in upon a dream

about the bourgeoisie.

Voices - port, starboard, stern,

I was on an 89 foot Oyster yacht named

Money to Burn.

At port there was polo playing,

crocket swaying,

ascot collecting and

men with over inflated egos,

cowboy flexing.

They were wearing silver lined equestrian

silks, shadowed with elegance

and grace,

an elitists’ customary place.

The orchestra played

while the ivy league alumni

reminisced about the Yahd.

While I was waiting

for the pseudo-academic discourse

to melt away,

I smoked dope with the Pope,

cut a rug with Stephen Hawking

and danced, and danced, and danced.

A woman wearing a Viking hat

ushered me to my table.

She sang me the menu with the grandeur

of Puccini, Straus or Verdi.

I sat looking around my table,

wide eyed and amazed,

P. Diddy, Bill Gates, Barbara Walters

and Robin Leach accompanied me and my daze.

Hours swirled by quickly

thoughts and words

turned into champagne sipping

pinkies up, white pants and Prada.

Magnificence, luxury and nobility

thrown out the window

with pool boy fucking.

Delirium fills the room,

the tan lines start to blur,

the dizzying diamond swirls

fade into a stream of ultra white light.

I awake in my Faded Glory nightshirt.