(20 minute poetry)

In the magazine,
they paint on every page a different scene,
I dream of magazines, they are to me my coffee cream, each picture a tincture to take make me see that every magazine that I purchase is all about me.

Adverts,
annoying,
but all ports in the magazine drag me deeper into each scene until I'm drowning in Gucci, Max Factor or Cola and role playing with pastry that shouts to me, 'taste me, bake me, roll me and make me your own'

If I'm sick the magazine knows and gives me a blow by blow account of how much my medicine costs me, how it affects me and how this infests and infects me.

Almost like the surgery and the magazine merge into a better dream and soothes me to sleep.