We become our shopping
something that’s not quite feeling
a semi-emotion as if underwater
or near tears unable to breathe or drown.
Are we living in the present
tense or another kind of mood?
Where are the horses, the plains?
All is now the ting machine
like hearts and minds living
diffidently ‘with eyes closed’.
Tiredness streams in the
supermarket’s eyes, all of this
heaviness on shelves
There are dry leaves everywhere
bursting in the doors
over the white floor
perpetual death and life intertwined
like insect swarms, webs, cords.
The weights of money and goods
topple against our hide, our putty
skins, our plastic dresses, over our gritty
eyes, the smoke in our torsos
abdomens, our breasts all sexual desires
melting around our knees
packages of frozen meat, spiderlike
movements over our buttocks, tattoos
on our ankles in the shape of wings
but faded, distended.
We should be laughing instead
of wandering like evaporated luck
or a plot of cash points
a graph of bewilderments on price tags
sliding doors into the great cavern of the centre
full of gems, gowns, movie tricks.
And exit signs stretch out like
a system, a straight-seeming system
that is soon a dead-end, a locked door
in the shape of wings but faded.
The Blossoms of Retail
1 February 2018