Sunday, October 30, 2011


The synthe-parfum-inked catalogue is chastening:
So much to buy for so little money,
And you have none.
How must you reek of failure
How must you pong of angst
When workers in Mumbai and Shanghai
Infuse every plasma screen
With the blood of their very Faust,
While all you may hope for
Is a kiss, a caress,
And ergo may sigh authentically
As you file the catalogue
In the state-sanctioned bin,
Knowing love is a ship
That never comes in.

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