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