Supermarket Doomstrolling

To be human, is to be a supermarket stroller.

welcome

radiant light, fish eye.

strolling through your air-conditioned crevices

i lose track of time

sauntering through fluorescent tunnels

neatly lined with grids of hypnotic blue and beetlejuice red,

a manmade escarpment,

marked by endless weaving turns

funnelling into smaller hidden alleys of funfetti pink and plastic yellow.

confectionery

when life seems to dull at its sharp, unfriendly edges,

i find solace in the rainbow road,

eyes glazed,

head empty,

enamoured by colourful rows of sweet, candescent gems.

i reach into your steady fuzzy arms,

i crave your warm numbing embrace,

laced generously with

strawberry candy floss,

sour gummy drops,

peanut butter munchies,

and fruit salad jelly lollies.

your cookie crumb coated,

caramel cream filled,

chocolate dipped top

understands me when no one else can.

fresh meats

what is the value of a limb

or the price of a soul?

i wonder how many hands have held this pound of flesh,

now packaged tightly in a cling-wrapped plastic tray,

stacked one on top of the other,

a back muscle next to a hind leg next to a raw red rib.

the dismembered beast, reconfigured to rectangular blocks laid bare on this refrigerated shelf.

exsanguinated,

singed,

and dehaired

treated meticulously until what’s left is a hollow carcass,

whose dry bone, white like an iridescent pearl

is not precious enough to see the daylight.

all to be summarised,

as a tenderloin steak,

worth twenty-four dollars.

laundry & cleaning

what would i do without you

you coddle me

soothe me

heal me

feed me

clothe me

clean me

indulge me

you teach me all the ways to scrub, soak and wipe away my sins

with bottled peroxides and calcium carbonates.

rid myself of my sweat and blood,

peel off my oil and grime,

mask my humanness with the lactic smell of freesia and artificial cherry blossom

so i can feel myself again.

to be human, is to be sterile.

to be human, is to be a supermarket stroller.

goodbuy, tomorrow?

sunrise or nightfall,

your neon beams draw me in,

like a mayfly tethered to the moonlight.

your laminated floors are worn,

marred with the scars of yesterday.

your metal racks are weary,

carrying the weight of the world.

spices and jams from faraway continents,

preserved fruit and tinned fish,

fresh herbs and crushed nuts,

some ripped, dented, and bruised

but resting ever so gently,

on your haphazardly stocked walls.