Mar 182013

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


 Leave a Reply

You may use these HTML tags and attributes: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <cite> <code> <del datetime=""> <em> <i> <q cite=""> <s> <strike> <strong>

Connect with Facebook



This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.