The supermarkets are the whorehouses of our time

where women buy, shamelessly their milk – it’s soy

all proper, of course, no sin where they sell lime,

and seek to catch a passing stranger’s smile, all coy.

But any scrutiny reveals the toll of the age,

where conventionalized necessity dictates

that soulless eyes and pent-up, frothing rage

be concealed by immaculate Gucci-shades.

Like Wilde I see a macabre sarabande

where glaring neon-lights and genetics

serve as a backdrop for a blindly grasping hand

all lost in consumerist aesthetics.

I turn away, reach for not yet transformed, succulent savoy and lime

that cling to life – for now, and flee from entropy’s deploy of time.

© 2013 Thilo Graf

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