papirfugl

Demand

On sidewalks wet with piss from those
too perfume-drenched to smell
their individualities
trickle down the drain,

you carry your protective shields,
forged by logos, L and Vs,
click-clack into towers in
a tailored uniformity.

To then say, “It’s the industry.
Our paths were marble-tiled, then walked.
What else is there to do but stroll
these floors of luxury?”

Still, your cards slide in and out
the slit of your economies
as plastic burns between the thighs
of horny cash machines.

By all means, spend at will.
The money’s in your hands.
But don’t pretend that you don’t choose
how hard supply should fuck demand.