shop

  

I work in the west end 

where G listers accessorise with matching sycophants and chuwawas in YSL handbags at parties deluxe 

And I'm perpetually perplexed 

at the pre-occupation of the same zones yet parallel worlds of the me's and the  yous 

where reality's toxins incinerate dreams and put nightmares into perspective

  

With sweat laced 20s, 10s and micro life data cards 

the sales assistants connect in mild affirmations of collectivism in progress  

the liberty of individuality all but curtailed by obligation to interact 

Thank heavens for the sun 

cause there's not much the twain would agree on  

The deity of manufactured legends  

and nurtured frailties pissed on the red mist in Orwellian fish bowls 

though our quiet skin carries the eggs of heroes  

beyond this we can all enlist the viral condition of snivelling narcissism  

supplementing crucial voids that sit like bottomless pits 

collecting lumps of shit