By | 1 February 2018

Down here, my pound of flesh is worth a dollar fifty
more. Where the old pretzel maker from Mindanao
once rested his sweat-flecked arms, there is now
a fire sale of obsolescence. A garden of aerosol cans
glistens, a low-grade hum emanates across
autonomous regions of retail. We once saw Mrs Lee,
very much the hypotenuse
to the railing of ageing steel. Every half-hour the virgins
parade, and giggle in their off-white whites. As I ascended, I recoiled
from the gathering stench of marriage. Remind me to tell you
about the other sale as well, before the discount codes go bad.
The nomads tell us of emporia built into emporia, aporia
within aporia. Some legumes here have not yet felt
the heat of the sun. Subprime loans bloom in neat terraces,
their scent draws the weary, the homeless, the recently discharged.
Noodles from Sarawak, a newly discovered scent
from downtown LA, a tribal mask from London. The best bed linen
wage slavery can buy. Wordlessness bleeds, out there
there is silence curated just for you and your loved ones.
Get back to work. There are acres of sleep we have not yet lost
and visions of paradise still not in the catalogue.

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