On the Front (Door) Line, 2010
They've started already, words
flapped through my letter slot
promising me visions of futures
colour-coded, branded and stamped
with their picture-perfect smiles,
each eyeshot market-tested -
a hint of wrinkled insincerity
batch rejected. They smother
each other, use the faintest breath
of draft to puff themselves
to the top of the pile, deny
the take-out fliers and taxi cards
the chance to catch my eye,
my wallet's vote. I hear them rustle
triggerpoint slogans as they flutter
across my hall, trip and slip
my feet as I chase them, heel them
to the floor; even as I crumple
roses, trees, glyphic birds,
their inks infest my skin,
printing memes and manifestoes
to my palm as I rip and bin
their tired, recycled pulps.
They've started already, words
flapped through my letter slot
promising me visions of futures
colour-coded, branded and stamped
with their picture-perfect smiles,
each eyeshot market-tested -
a hint of wrinkled insincerity
batch rejected. They smother
each other, use the faintest breath
of draft to puff themselves
to the top of the pile, deny
the take-out fliers and taxi cards
the chance to catch my eye,
my wallet's vote. I hear them rustle
triggerpoint slogans as they flutter
across my hall, trip and slip
my feet as I chase them, heel them
to the floor; even as I crumple
roses, trees, glyphic birds,
their inks infest my skin,
printing memes and manifestoes
to my palm as I rip and bin
their tired, recycled pulps.
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