Jessy Assy

It's small and strangled

boxes ambushing 

their prey in every inch, nook, and corner,

the cripplingly claustrophobic

sensation drowning its victims

in an abyss of paper, carton and leather.

Aromas of burnt Cedar cigarettes stain 

the carpeted floor 

of red and beige,

litigating liaisons with lavender;

its spurts released

every hour or so,

as that tireless air-freshener continues

pumping, pumping, pumping

into the voices of customers:

crying children and lying slicks

engulfed in a three-floor department store.

It's not so different, really,

from all the other profit-seeking-

already-prevalent shops

taking over all the streets,

pervading the thoughts 

of fashion slaves --

as their minds gradually deteriorate and dwindle,

forever distracted by sparkly shoes

filigreed finishes

and prim purses

that wickedly contrive and conspire 

“feel me...touch me...

watch me glow and glisten and gleam...”

though the Benjamin Franklins

remain unduly unconcerned 

floating around in heftily heavied pockets

woefully weeping 

“mercy...

let whatever’s left of us stick together…”

A symmetric symphony

of conglomerated con artists and customers

buying and selling

and lying and lying and lying --

inevitably surviving from one day to the next

because of such loose leaflets of green parchment.