ABOUT THE POEM: Chapter 93 – What a Wonderful World is not about sex, grief, or money in isolation. It is about value collapse-how human worth is quietly replaced by transactional efficiency when institutions of care fail. The chapter begins with loss that is absolute and non-negotiable: death and illness. There is no metaphor here, no lyric softening. This grounding matters because it prevents the later moral confusion from being misread as indulgence. The speaker is not curious; he is exhausted. The brothel functions as a philosophical laboratory. The speaker enters knowing the rules, repeating them like a mantra: “they do not give love.” This self-awareness blocks the usual moral escape route. What follows is not temptation but discovery-the discovery that simulated care can feel more attentive than real relationships governed by status, timing, and emotional withholding. Crucially, the poem does not romanticize the women nor demonize them. The indictment is sharper: money becomes sacred, people become instruments. The metaphor of godhood is deliberate and chilling. Power flows not from desire but from currency. Everyone is diminished by it. The final lines land because they refuse catharsis. There is no redemption, no lesson learned, no healing arc. Only accounting: she loses value by being sold, he loses value by having to buy, money gains value. That triad is the spine of the chapter. It is sociological, ethical, and existential at once. This is not a poem asking for sympathy. It is a document of recognition.Ronie Dinosaur Chapter 93 – What a Wonderful World
My mother died two and a half years ago.
My father just suffered a heart attack.
At thirty-seven, single, I felt utterly unable to cope.
When I headed to the brothel, I knew exactly where I was going.
I kept telling myself: They don’t give love; they sell what you pay for-and that’s all you’ll get.
Still, I pressed on.
What my ethics, morals, values, social status, academic successes, financial wins, and family name-everything-couldn’t secure,
a couple of green notes did.
I told myself I’d at least get someone to talk to, someone to touch.
I wasn’t there to exploit or just fuck.
But what I found went beyond a transaction.
For two notes, a girl delivered a full “boyfriend experience,”
as if she owed me a debt she had to repay-
by loving me, excessively, like it was her duty.
I’ve watched girls and women deny me the right to love them.
Some wouldn’t even let me voice it.
I was told no when I was the school topper.
Told no when I was her best friend, offering respect and pure affection.
Told I wasn’t worldly enough, clever enough-like her.
And here? Two notes worked magic.
As if I’d handed them their god,
and now they were my slaves-owning me while serving me.
What a beautiful world.
Such nice people.
Simply wonderful.
She has no value because she was sold.
I have no value because I had to buy.
Money gained value;
human beings lost it.
Here is my anti-prayer:
May their god bless them, the ones who sell their bodies for cash-
or else fools like me would have died thirsty and starved.
What has happened, Ronie?
What if one of them asks me one day?
They won-what else?
You were by their side,
and I was alone.
My character flaw-my human condition.
I still don’t beg, brag, pray, hope, or dream.
I am a godless being.
I walk out of habit and style.
The universe has not won over my character,
and the world has not captured me alive.
No ground to walk, no sky to guard.
Poverty, acclaimed; rights denied-it hits hard.
I still feel the difference,
and Ronie Dinosaur walks.
Never mind.
No god.
No animal.
No human.
Go fuck yourself.
My humiliated heart rejects your disrespect.
You keep it-
and keep your respect too, quietly intact.
If you lack the comprehension,
the grasp of moral truth,
then insult is not accepted-it is denied.
But I am still angry.
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