Modernism’s response to T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” (published 1915).
How we cannot go, you and I,
even across the most soothing sky.
As we, in our world, are overwhelmed
with cities, people,
and alienation amongst the streets
but still, it is you who mutters of retreats,
as modernity dissonance falls meek,
a weakening resistance
And, please, recall the room
where women come and go
talking of Michelangelo.
What meaning do they impose?
Besides what was said before
just as Nietzsche’s embossed coin, I suppose,
mingling with a lasting sore,
centuries of repetitive boredom,
an embodiment of an Italian postmortem.
So how should you presume, modern man?
Walk throughout our society,
lament the times at hand?
But before I go, oh Prufrock:
Remember that is not it, at all.
You’re my inferno,
as I, your identity,