Poem in which I don’t get a Kanye West ticket

blow by blow of last evening:
stabbing at artichoke hearts
& a plate of insipid sausages trying
to come up with words to relate
to the flurry of conversation,
turning to her, at a quick glance
thinking ‘Marquez Almeida’ might
be meaningful Spanish as I settle for:
what do the words on your t-shirt mean?
‘oh no, it’s the name of a designer’
oops, I return to stabbing my sausages
it’s not easy to pretend your eyes aren’t
glazing over when twenty-three candles
are ablaze – chanting happy birthday while
bathroom doors shut for round 2 of coke
I remember now, that when one believes
the whole world is yours for the taking
all facts quickly fall in line to confirm that belief
so of course friday’s tickets for Kanye West
are too expensive, god, mainstream music
who wants to be in a queue at midnight anyway
but! getting your hands on every item from
the latest topshop collection is forever ~
fashion week has to be someone’s idea
of an inside joke, behind the curtains
someone is throwing empty beer cans
at voodoo dolls lined up inside a large tv screen:
heaven is 1080p & full of chinese subtitles,
where the popcorn flakes you spit out of the sky
drift ever so slowly towards Somerset House
& is mistaken by bloggers for ‘first snow’
meanwhile in the kitchen my flatmate says
the reason she wants to leave isn’t because a life
in London is impossible, ‘I could get a job here easily too,
you know, nepotism,’ I want to blush on her behalf
but instead I stay silent, I return to my room,
pull the silk blanket over my knees again,
hopelessly refreshing the ticketmaster page;
let us all float on in the insularity of our worlds

Natalie Chin


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