Food Bank. 

I offer my deposit with grievance,

flat palmed and open
I pay my mortgage with
tinned veg and harvest fruit.

My shoulder holds up twenty-seven
storeys, neediness an opiate
for penthouse no-faces. 
Brothers and sisters clasp
digits onto children’s necks
applying pressure. 

Vaults, dusty and grey
offer tin and wicker. 
Gold, silver and bronze
spent an eternity ago
on drinks with lunch
and white powder nasal spray
for clients. 

I spend my macaroni and cheese,
cylindrically sloshed on one
more days life. Eagerly anticipating
the dilution of the blue wave. 
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N.W.O

We trade in handshakes
of ghostly currency.
Spectres melting into
leather office chairs,
£1000 shoes propped up,
hard-heel tapping mahogany.
99% scrabbling at chicken-feed
pinching news items between their fingers,
screens harbouring wipeable perspiration,
when long before it disappeared,
between pages of law and righteousness.

We’re told its empty:
The comfort of the Euro feels
nothing like the £’ing of heart
against heart with an embrace.
But clammy and desperate we
compete to live for techno-respite,
sharing our global position
through social media machines
and laughing at funny tidbits;
something to disengage the brain
when you start wondering why
your bank account haemorrhages,
and your neighbour has two new cars.

We trade in misinformation,
skulduggery to chug
the oil and gentle fucking
of the 1%.
£6 shoes propped up
against IKEA furniture
and the age old question
of free-will.