god, gold and glory: post-modern colonialism
“Make the injustice visible.”
Mohandas K. Gandhi
Women sinful to the core. The original accusation gnawed from the full round of edible fruit. Bulbous like a breast. A circle in a circle in zeros to the bulls-eye pleasure of sin. Shame begets hidden indulgence, enhances wickedness to double-down the adrenaline rush. Massive mammary glands of porn fuel his need; feed his anxiety that you keep yours covered.
The imperative of ever-expanding markets. Exploit every opportunity. Cultivate every untapped consumer segment. Implants lovely and buoyant. The thin knife of enlargement, or sometimes that of reduction. You can design and grab hold a pair of your own. You own. To feel their heft, stroke and caress them until you melt in an ecstasy of selfie, spawning yet another niche. Debasement is so yesterday. Throw them out to the world and proclaim they are mine, mine, mine.
Holdings cataloged by letters and numbers in tandem. The coordinates of success. More of a woman. More of a more of a woman. The splayed map of Africa in the city of Berlin, where lusty pens traced lines. Pride of size captured in degrees of latitude and longitude. Largest of all, they called the Congo Free State. Her mountains and minerals, even today, men dig.