Monochrome corporations
occupy angular edifices:
designed to be solid, smooth,
clinical to the point of obsession.
Clean-shaven men in sober ties,
austere women, hair drawn back,
exploit glumly surreal loopholes
in obscure business laws just
to extract additional currency
from anonymous customers,
their lives assembled
from the artless strokes
of uncaring algorithms:
two-dimensional profiles
of mere minor players in the
grinding, onerous growth
of gargantuan entities.
Crush or be crushed.
I neatly sidestep their
strenuous progress,
choosing instead the
freely shown paintings
of backstreet artists.
I breathe in the odour
of last night’s excess
with joyful abandon:
beer, piss, kebab meat.
My city yet lives and bleeds.


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