Silver Spoons make giddy sounds

Silver spoons make giddy sounds
(after Kitchenette Building)

Money has a sick thumping sound, bass that makes the gums bleed, it’s witchcraft, it’s universally understood. Between us there is nothing. Then there’s the sculpture of capitalism – cash – say it – cash. A hushing sound. Rich jealousy chokes with a hideous purity. There is no self-control; tailored suits, Italian leather shoes, see a show, see seven, holiday in Europe, go to Moscow, snap pictures among the homeless, the heartbroken, ride the chained elephants in Bali, pat a tiger in India, photograph the natives, don’t recognise the absurdity of cigars for cigars sake. You don’t smoke but hate to seem uncultured – skinny bastard, each parent competing for love, the Xbox, the laptops, and the stupid red sports car. God! We’d die to have half the cash you ungrateful squandering ass, my god! Spare us the green eyes – my god, you disgust us. I’m thinking of buying a house in Sydney, nothing flash, just a renovator’s dream with high ceilings, a fireplace if I can. No brain for science or mathematics, lord knows we’ll die as tramps. Worlds away we’re just as ungrateful, but in this town we’re on the lower rung, it’s hard for us, it’s hard not to look at you with daddy’s silver spoon and hate your fucking guts.

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Morning walk

Slapped flat by the realisation
that the Darwinian top-shelf isn’t your bag, the urge to
slink back rolls in, strong as waves, but with more liberty, one
resorts to fatalism in the face of too little shifts at the
restaurant and too many bills to pay, walking is free
and it clears the head but the high rises
at the sea edge tease and torment. The voyeuristic
prying on unrestrained wealth curls into obsession
study hard, you’ll get a better job if you make it
on that diet of 2 minute noodles and toast.