Every house, a Christmas turkey,
and two cars on the driveway,
which used to be a lawn.
How many elephants can you cram inside a Mini?
Shoe-horned in along computer-modelled streets,
cynically named after popular poets,
maximised for profit, not for balance.
Shanghaid poplars exclaim the desperation of it all,
allowed off-reservation to stand with golf sale signs,
their lot is decoration since they’re slender, green and tall,
their sandwich boards say “Everything will be fine,
if you just copy all the others, and keep between the lines”.
Sour milk-breathed serfs emerge,
to serve the early morning call to prayer,
to claim a seat and a profit share,
to gravitate towards distraction,
and away from bleak despair;
to flush out withered raisin lungs,
with cool decanted morning air,
to redress accumulated wounds
that cannot heal or be repaired,
under a sighing morning moon.
These shadows of humanity,
immune to immutable reason,
cursed by DNAs tenacious vanity,
each somehow still believing,
that this is all secretly about them;
that they’re “gonna make it” out alive,
if they just flagellate themselves
a little longer,
a little harder,
a little smarter …
And if not for them,
then for their son or for their daughter.
It’s win-win for the gene pool,
when blood is thicker than water.
Two cars on every driveway,
which used to be a lawn,
and a Christmas turkey on every table.
And a carrot under every hoodwinked bloody nose.