Society always pays itself in the counterfeit coin of its dream
                                                              – Marcel Mauss

I crawl through Mayfair where the lost souls enter
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top coca blisses, & the diamonds flung
    out for last food scraps from the soft magenta
leather accessories, now cut the tongue
              which would caress them for a pinch of salt
           or taste vicuña from the warded vault
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of deep investments : yet I may not not
    traverse these frozen wastes, because there is
              a final synod where the latest jot
of failure must be dotted. Housedrones fizz
           still decades since their sponsors’ first demise
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           along the pavements where this little lot
              climax for sweet privations, then cam eyes
    up to the perils of the craft-filled skies.
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