Sun News presents this poem from 1999, for those who fondly remember the turn of the millennium, and for those who missed it:


Where will you be when the millennium dawns?

Eating Faith’s popcorn as she pokes a kernel

in the bored room of chicken fat directors –

Or on the thirty-third floor riding

on jetsam and then some,

calculating algebra or adjusting the null,

how dull!

Did you know 007

is a Russian spy?


Area codes of betrayal

splayed out on a platter

proof perfect in the lab of cyber and data

mined blabber.

The stand-up courts of espionage

declare: the lipstick was Chinese –

in the borderless crown of epitome

the Boers beg burrow, and William, in memory

Such a fine line, whilst

the shaman shame the Mandalay

crime symbol of Old age

wrinkled lips smack deranged.

As the bombs burst out laughing at America

in her cage –

so far cocooned Rubbermaids,

a brand and yet she’s still his mother.


Crush her.

Lemon-crushed ice melted in the zero

but in the seventh year

they’ll be squinting yellow

hello Cher-Nobel prize, that’s no disaster

as Mongol tribes ring circles round their yurts

whilst Shanghai sluts

sip yogurt.

National isms fade….. Then  swish,

Tibet’s Dalai Lama a holy wish.

But where is Richard Gere?

In third?

or is he here whilst the pope hails a New York yellow cab

munching on Moishe’s pastrami on rye

as he preaches, “Jesus is a lie”,

gee!, what a swell guy.

Trying to keep a vision intact

in fact when the grassy knoll

knobs on a hill

Steve Jobs will be popping Silicon pills.


But where will you be in 2001?

by heaven’s ground or

on hellish earth, a dearth

of hell-bent escapades.


Pyromaniacs igniting a key to light

and drill the oilrigs whilst

Argentines, Chile’s and peppers bore.

A glimmer, and glamour but what of spiritual matter

as one. No matter,

what arrow is worth a shot

to the center of the narrow

uranium shores  – sinking Siberia

and from North to South

from pole to pole

the core is a hole –

rapidly slowly decaying,

no delaying for

in 2007 when females reign

reindeers run

their arctic path melts down

the cheese exports from South to North.

Then comes the lucid moment when Charlie says,

“Love my tuna raw and red,

it’s not important; it’s only the form

that’s the norm. But it’s in his head.

The fish are all dead.

Is he standing at the parapet?

or cruising down the Nile

creeping up the mouth

petrified in Petra

No, no, no that was 1999.


A suicide, a carpet ride

As the big ball glides

sirens screeching to the floor

police in military attire attend the ball.

And there goes Richard Branson.

He guides a sonic craft to virgin

planets none too small.


The Islamic brigade

have got it made

not in the shade of the light of Mohammed’s

oil, that’s spoiled

the bubble which bloated then burst:

amassing hunger and grievance and fuss

over earth’s lonely thirst

for a signal, a clue as to what the hell to do.


Yet in the background swooned

A Trappist’s delight

rejoice in a drink

dubbed live overnight

in their cheeks of disguise

(was it pie in the sky or peach schnapps in their eyes)

as they sang,

“Show me the way to next whisky bar……”


Photo: Versace plate for the year 2000. In the collection of C. Cunningham

By Elise Krentzel

Elise Krentzel is the author of the bestselling memoir Under My Skin - Drama, Trauma & Rock 'n' Roll, a ghostwriter, book coach to professionals who want to write their memoir, how-to or management book or fiction, and contributing author to several travel books and series. Elise has written about art, food, culture, music, and travel in magazines and blogs worldwide for most of her life, and was formerly the Tokyo Bureau Chief of Billboard Magazine. For 25 years, she lived overseas in five countries and now calls Austin, TX, her home. Find her at, FB: @OfficiallyElise, Instagram: @elisekrentzel, LI: