THICK, BROWN POEMS #12

BOXING DAY

They come.

They come,

and come.

They pre-cum in your direction,

when they glimpse the yellow flash of your staff tag,

swinging weightlessly;

a dinky ball and chain.

A painful, psychological brand that cuts to cauterize,

bites and licks,

till the marrow of your being,

glows pink with

Manipulation.

Then they get in your face,

accost you,

and any youthful dreams of temporary narcissism blush,

and retreat.

Sign here,

And here,

One more here.

What’s this?

Oh, just your anthropomorphic handover,

You’re now regularized,

Regulated.

You’ll tend to the beasts,

Yellow-eyed,

Passively mobile,

Swinging commercialism and to-and-fro.

Ready to bite the hand that might enable their sickness

To go on breathing,

Writhing,

Angry at everything without knowing why,

But smiling in front of their contemporary’s eyes.

They snatch at your service,

Then spin toward the counter,

Leaving a stink like diluted perfume, sweat and disregard…

Then you lie to their vile shadow and say…

“Your welcome.”

Seasons Greetings humans.

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