Streetstriptease by Adam Porkolab

"The algorithm swings its bell, a ding-dong conjuror of creed."

Streetstriptease
by Adam Porkolab

The mind walks out in shoes turned inside out, its sole on sale;
morality, spat to the curb, the age sells us whole on sale.

The algorithm swings its bell, a ding-dong conjuror of creed;
in a ripped-out pocket it fizzes, gutters, dies: a cold coal on sale.

Influencers preach the grinning gospel; each one plays along,
while conscience caws, a dead plush bear, a moth-eaten stole, on sale.

I hand myself to the glitter, sugar-daddy, all for the shine;
my faith's the width of a “ready” in an app, a beggar's dole on sale.

We sold the creed by the kilo; they weighed it and hauled it away;
three likes a soul today, and by the dozen goes the payroll on sale.

Everyone leans on the horn, but no hand steers the wheel;
at every bend we slacken, mindless, and coast the downhill stroll on sale.

Worth's a shoddy chit now, a wet and crumpled banknote;
down the sloping street runs “enough for now,” with none to console, on sale.

Don't ask what a deed is worth, or a word, or a promise kept;
whoever trades, wins, and shrugs “this is how it goes,” the only goal on sale.

Remember the garden, Adam: one bite, and the whole of us fell;
now every child of the curb walks out with his bitten soul on sale.

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