is it love if it's Formica? walking around Ikea
tender lovers in the bedroom display
dream domestic interiority. there’s nothing
that says longing like the promise of lustreware.
fingering plastic tomatoes, i squeeze
your hand, plastic bread lets out a sighhh
we follow projected arrows aroundandaround
unplumbed bathrooms, teased by the junk of it all.
don’t you think this would look good
on the new laminate parquet? i taste
your mouth, the wet of it sopping
licking all the colour off of everything.
the poverty of exchange value
don’t you fumble for yr love
language whilst extracting
our exchange. there’re no riches
in the gold-pot on the other side
of honey. the old haunches
of your muscles can’t forget
the means of grind. token
appreciation of shared values
pretend to cuddle you
at night.