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.