With the world seemingly getting worse and worse, I decided to write this poem. I wrote this poem inspired from “Ode to My Bitch Face” by Olivia Gatwood.
You market mongrel,
hardnosed logo. Pursed-lipped,
free-handed, malicious money man.
You’re a chip on my shoulder.
You’re Woolworths gone broke.
You sidestep orphans on Park Lane.
You strainer of single moms.
You’re a fat cat’s laugh.
Capitalism, they call you
but there’s nothing free about you,
free like students who run home
to their moms when you break their legs –
knees crushed under the heavy boots
of Winston and Elizabeth
as bottles pop and bubbles fizz.
Postgrads want to buy a house.
Thirty-somethings want to start a family.
And then you smile, like Botox
as coins chisel cheekbones.
Medusa looks into our souls –
stone-cold corporate stares.
One idea is that we’re born this way
but our existence predates these looks.
We came out kicking,
and see how we’ve learned to spend.
what’s wrong with you Capitalism,
what’s wrong with you?
Maybe we really were born with the Midas touch,
turning everything to gold with a poke.
But I don’t believe that, not for second –
that we woke up like this
and have been like this for generations.
How can we rest well
when health is a multibillion-pound industry
and the entrance to a hospital feels like HSBC?
The World’s Local Bank
They will tell you money is safety.
They will tell you finance is security.
Capitalism is a burning ladder.
Capitalism, I don’t blame you for
bringing the sword. I blame us for
putting it into position.