If we do not mass produce products, we vie with one another

in the difficult, exquisite and useless art of dressing fleas 

Octavio Paz


Mr and Mrs Flea are dressed up

and ready for the celebrations.

He sports a neatly tailored waistcoat,

she silver-bordered asymmetric skirts.
They are the talk and toast of the party.
Sad to say, however,

a budding fashionista in the audience

catches sight of their duds,

and next year on the catwalks of Milan and London

the look is brazenly passed off

as the signature of the couture line

at the brand new House of Insect,

which in due course signs a cracking deal

with a high street shop.
I don’t need to say the Fleas never see a penny,

and neither does their tailor,

who, five months out of the punishing year,

wrecks his eyes

and racks sleep-heavy brains

in the decking out of his favourite customers.
Though for him it was never about the money –

the fleas, dearest, could hardly pay,

and the tailor is in any case not a tailor

but a farmer from the provinces

going about satisfaction in his own, yes,

                                         his own unfathomable way

where the sun drops, faithless, to the littoral,

dead dark balling its fists against the light.
See him there, readied at the chipboard table.

He takes a swig of liquor.

See, dearest, how the inconsistent stars glitter and claw.


Published on the website of Poetry International (Rotterdam) and in Pirate Music (Bloodaxe Books, 2014)