It’s only March
But you can already tell
Flour is going to be big this year,
In this year, hot this year
They’re wearing nothing
But it on Parisian catwalks,
Rolling in the stuff, skin caked
Before they strut
There’s a bag at the British Museum
Squat against a Parthenon horse’s head,
Tourists are propping their new-borns by it
Then shoving each other for a better shot
‘No touching!’ scream the curators.
It is snorted off thighs in Berlin nightclubs.
Just a gram spilt between
The naked kneecap and the exposed pelvis
Is driving disco goers mad
‘It’s the smell of it,’ one explains,
‘Like a baby’s shampooed crown.’
‘It’s the new colour,’ another insists,
‘White bleeds into red while you watch.’
They are baying for it
On Wall Street
Knowing the time is ripe
For making a killing
Time itself bleeds for it.
One fella sets himself on fire over it,
A guard, by the warehouse doors.
What’s he trying to say through the flames?
Unhinged, no doubt, something about price.