Spike-heeled patent shoes flat as doll's eyes,
Reflecting back the flat neon canyons
As the marionette in possession of the pair
Dances an unholy flamenco to the top of a gilded cage.
It smells of money here,
And the part of 9 to 5 no one ever mentions,
And people falling into the prison of their own flesh.
Slave to the green and the white, yoked with
Thin strips of scarlet silk dotted with understated,
As fake as the lips slick with cherry red.
Parasitic permutations in blue doubleknit,
Spectres without souls, every hair slicked into place,
With eyes like television screens spitting static.
They smell of aftershave and corruption, ironically rendered
Incorruptible- you can't sink much lower than the corner
Of that one long boulevard.
Through six city blocks and some change,
Which they count carefully and hoard for the next
Sticky touch of cash and failure,
And they apply blush because they've lost shame,
And read the patterns of the future
Scryed in th