Holes in my soles.Mature


Holes in my soul/s


My shoes have sowed the seeds of dissent

Threads cut from the aching fingers of free trade,

For the developing world this is not development.

If only my trainers were grown on  a tree, and then the  palms that’s 

Nutured my soles would only bleed sap for me.

Long before there were holes in my soles, there were holes in my soul.

And it stings.

Like the first bee sting of your life, before then you never knew pain,

But like the bee the main pain is not done to me,

Our worlds abused stinger is left in my heel,

 But the bee leaves a death stain etched onto the floor,

And it makes my insides peel.

If I had known how mislaid my consumer choices could be, how dismayed my Amazon account could make me.

I would never have done it, but that is no use now. Ignorance is  no defence, regret is no defence.

The advert I sport, sowed by fingers without thimbles, onto my hood,

I can never take off. This sin is in my sinews, its running in my blood.

My credit card my weapon of choice. Selected for its ease, and www. Aided accuracy,

Making the third world a quivering rabbit fixed in the designer beams of my car-ma.

This is not for me.

I am walking on glass and ashes and children. That bounce in my step is the bounce of disrespect, this labour is kept as a key to our prosperity. But this is a door I want closed.

The tongues I use don’t have a voice, they don’t speak of the hot factory womb that birthed them, they don’t have the choice.

But we do.

The choice to be aware of what goes on,

The choice to wear shoes without blood on.

The choice to be saints on pay day,

And noble on birthdays.

To line pockets with holes in, so that they may be mended.

To bring retribution, make sure these people are defended.

I wont kick back with kicks, ill kick up a fucking storm.

And I will make the right choice.

Because this is not for me.

We keep our shame in the shoe box, at the bottom of cupboards and we throw it out with the recycling. But it is still there.

We leave it flailing from clothes hangers, stuffed into bottom drawers, and we leave the label on to prove its not fake. But its still there, and its definitely not fake.

We leave it in the plastic bags that asphyxiate seagulls, we leave it piled high In the rubbish dumps, it generates its own gravity strong enough to suck planes from the very sky, and crash them into towers, that is the mass of our shame.

This is not for me.

We give it to charity shops to confuse our karma, we don’t wear till it comes back into fashion, and we even leave it on the plate. We waste our shame.

And now its built up so much I can not ignore it, its stuck in my throat and I applaud it. Cause shame is what it takes to change our ways.

Shame is what it takes to not defend our ways, and shame is what it takes to mend our ways. To mend the holes in our soles. So embrace it, and like they say just do it.


The End

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