Behind the Curtains of Discontent

Yesterday I went to the mall.
It was one of those high-class megacomplexes.
Upscale, upwardly moving, a temple of commerce.
An architectural celebration of merchantry.
Built of blazing glass and tempered steel.
A wonder to behold.
Quite nice.
No riff-raff here.
No refuge for the riff-raff here.

Only room for the beauteous.
Lovely, pretty people and their pretty stores.
And there I was, strolling about.
Wanting.
Filled with desire.
A gaping hole spreading open from deep within.
Sudden, manufactured emptiness.
A swirling, plastic abyss.
An artificial void.
Then anger.
Confusion.
Hatred.
Fist smash.

I have had all I have ever needed.
There are millions who would trade for my life.
In a blink.
No hesitation.
Sign them up.
No gun to my head.
No fear of the night.
No struggle for food.
Electricity.
Running fucking water.
Clothes in the closet.
Food in the fridge.
A car that runs.
No rust either.
Damn.
Damn.
DAMN.

So in the mighty halls of supply and demand,
I am made to have demands for their supply.
For things I do not need or do not want.
These bastards have been in my head since birth.
Wiring and rewiring my mind.
Designing desire at a subconscious level.
Down to the molecules.
Rubbing together violently.
Silently.
Conspiring.
WANT WANT WANT WANT WANT
Atomically programmed.

Pull this shit out of my head.
Fuck this less-than-greater-than bullshit.
Nothing here in this Sodom on Sale will make my life better,
Or answer a single question
That I have.
I know this but yet
I still stop and look in the window.
I like what I see.
Maybe I will buy it.
But first
But first I need a Starbucks.

Americano. Venti.
I like mine black.

Photo Credit: . SantiMB . via Compfight cc

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