By Floralis
I’m wandering around my grandma’s garden
And see her leave the house with a lit cigarette in hand,
“Grandma, what are you doing? You don’t smoke.”
“Well, today, we are leaving an offering.
Today, we are presenting this to the
White man on the horse.”
I look around, but I don’t see anyone.
She puts the cigarette down on the ground,
And the dark smoke rises
Derrick takes the train to work today,
But today is no ordinary day.
Today is the day that Derrick makes partner.
“30 years at this fucking firm, and I’ve finally done it” he thinks to himself.
The CEO shakes his hand and says,
“Well done, Derrick. You deserve this.”
“You deserve this.”
This phrase rattles around Derrick’s head like the fragments of his skull once did,
As it was fractured by the end of a police baton.
“You deserve this, faggot.”
Derrick poses for his picture, hoping that his foundation covers up his 40 year old scar.
The team look at their projections for the new year,
And Derrick has discovered a small, impoverished town in Uttar Pradesh with a single call centre.
He rings up the owner, offers him a handsome sum of money, buys the place out, slashes the wages in half, brings glory to the firm.
And the dark smoke rises.
I open the newspaper on July 15th 2048 and read about the first ever transgender CEO.
He just took over this year, and he is introducing a new line of fashion designed to empower young trans people.
The designs are gorgeous, textured, unique without being tacky. I have to order something.
It arrived in the post with a tag attached,
“Made in Indonesia”
And the dark smoke rises.
29 people died in his factory last year,
But 1,000 kids feel represented in the media,
And 100 of those 1,000 can afford those clothes,
And the dark smoke rises,
And inside the dark smoke I see a silhouette
Of a white man on the horse.
I walk down the street and I see a crowd surround a decrepit house.
A white van with the words “Home Office” marked on the side,
And a confused looking family.
The father is crying, screaming, and his hands are covered in scars,
From the factory he once worked in.
A group of kids dressed in all black scream through the megaphone,
“Repeat after me:
You do not!
You do not!
Have to talk!
Have to talk!
To the police!
To the police!”
The dark smoke clears, the van moves on, the family stays another day.
They are together today, and they might be again tomorrow.
The success of the CEO was never the success of us all,
And the success of the partner was never the success of the many,
And when they meet with your kids and say “What do you want to be when you grow up?”
Tell them to say, “Queer capitalists, shut the fuck up”
Bad Apple Magazine 