Indian Summer

Sir’ Philip Green bonding with some of his Asian staff copy (2)

 

 

99 in the shade built on brittle bones of

coolie  slaves,

sucking in dirt and debris for a pop tart –

glitter-back ballerina tee,

you’re top of the crop,

made in Sir G’s, Bangladeshi –

slavery -sweat shop,

cloth cities,  built on the chai- coloured wheeze

of blossoming pulmonary disease, and

yellow ridged knuckles of puny bare bone stretched over

malnourished toes

—-

The choking yoke of childhood

smothered by the greedy

hiss of sewing machines

and pink silk, fairy fingers

picking, and pulling the seams – of a

a million or more dead-eye dreams

—-

Made with care, little tots

too small to sit on chairs,

balance on boxes cross legged –

their playtime: needles and

pins gouging , pricking ,

pus the bin.

—-

So when you slide on your skinnies – thigh pride blue or

rock those curves in hipsta flares

you also share,

Salma’s rickets, in those –

riveted  ridges,

and her grandmother’s tears

sewn in the pockets

—-

Factory owners creaming the dream

part of Monaco’s

glorious elite,

sovereign state pride,

‘gap,’ country club smiles,

while children of Calcutta,

bare-back the pain of

pig-profit gain –

paying  for a  Black Friday,

price freeze

on worn riven knees

Slap them into place

A dime dollar disgrace –

wow wow pickaninny please –

Buy me -Buy me -Buy me

and the fist of servitude punches blue -punches green

Buy -me -Buy me

Till the milksops bleed.

 

Saira Viola
Illustration: cYberbanX


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