Paralysis skulks from under Scandinavian furniture
into the gutter, spangled with unglamorous colours contradicting
a special Spartan mantra, grimly faded
in whatever decade happened twenty years ago.
Atrophy seeps out of Polynesian fritters
originating from a cantankerous vat of squidge,
which some Daoist monk moaned about
in an era that happened too long ago to care about.
Inertia squirms away from Turkish Delight,
resembling a brown and purple pillow case where night-thoughts
fester unperturbed and unmolested, cresting
in the hour suitable for the purest dreams.
Anesthesia settles down for an un-Italian coffee,
in some blighted overbright overblown ambience,
delivered in a form of studied disinterest, which you will experience
in a second as the air-con is set too low.
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