At Freeport

There are warehouses painted in faux U.S. plastic
And books that aren’t books, and Spring Sales that have lasted
For seventeen years, though the prices are higher
Than down on the high street, but cold bare-faced liars
Are claiming they’re low. So they drink it all in,
And the crowds who are empty with souls that are thin
Buy nostalgia that never existed before,
From the shop with the charmingly pastel décor.
Fat on therapy shopping, like boils fit for lancing,
Their heads full of Corrie and Strictly Come Dancing
They’re treating this tat as a day to remember.
It’s hell on a wet afternoon in November.
But it’s held in esteem by their unseeing eyes.
It’s the place where humanity gave up and died.


14 responses to “At Freeport

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