A metro-political fungus has emerged within the city walls. Infectious outbreaks have spurred throughout the labyrinth of streets, a localised colony of darkness. The metamorphic parasite has latched upon the most densely populated areas, clinging to the pavements with dirty and stained fingertips. The anathematic being silent in step, yet infectious to moral integrity. Immunity is strong, dehumanisation is the antidote. Don’t stare too long into those desperate eyes.
The jingling change of the pied piper has lured the beast into proximity. The war cries are being sketched into the morning, as the onlooking rats relinquish to the filth with their coffee-stained ties. On the ninth bell, the defenders emerge. Silent warriors illuminated by the holy hydrogen bulb. Faceless and patiently waiting. Oh, how beautiful they are, draped in all desires; laden with illustrious thread counts that warms even a polyester soul. The great defenders await the onslaught, as the battle becomes inevitable. The battle of the high street, famine against fashion. Who will wage victorious?
Of course, this is no match the ragged beggar has already lost, vanity has banished morality. Yet, echoes of darkness still remain, clutching at the fringes, battling a new battle; an ideological battle with the top cats and billboards. The beaten rogue is left desperate in eye, and see through of hand; shunned even further from society but still pounding on the door for sanctuary. Lest forget these are those with tunnelled noses and pickled arms, those who have fled the garden. Pickled minds that are not worthy, tarnished carpets cannot adorn their feet. The template skyline should not welcome them. Yet wait. The orb of perfection is contaminated. Cracks can be seen within the pearly gates.
Whilst Saint Peter lavishes those who enter with fragrance and false smiles, little does he know his righteous heart has been duped and he is welcoming the children of the commodity into a swirling abyss of deceit. The real terror has penetrated the kingdom, in fact, has created the kingdom. The off-shore giant, the almighty puppeteer. Twisted smiles propped up by dinning suits which are vaguely blemished by pink splatters of lobster tails. Black AMEX’s brandish the air stopping at nothing; only lingering though bowls of fine powder. Allah, Hare Krishna, Vishnu; I welcome you with stooped back and open wallet.
Who would have known, the silver spoon reflects contorted fangs and tyrannical madness? Climb out of the void of anxiety and contempt. The mirror has shattered, perfection is ugly. Sanitation is not freedom. Look beyond the image, a representation of values, often are hollow. True liberation is not an aesthetic.
