The greedy

greed has no tits or balls,

just hunger.

hunger for more.

more than you.

more than yesterday.

more than everyone.

I’ve seen womens

painted like shop windows

selling smiles

to the highest bidder,

trading loyalty for new screens

and kisses for plane tickets.

they think the world

is a goddamn shopping bag.

they get in beds

like someone swipes a card at the ATM.

and the mens,

they’re no better.

they measure manhood

by the thickness of their wallet,

not by the strength of their word.

they buy respect

with watches

and feel like gods

for paying the bar tab once.

greed unites them.

it’s their common language.

they don’t talk about books,

or ideas,

or pain.

they talk numbers,

contacts,

who fucked who

for one more bill.

and it doesn’t matter if you're a whore or a banker,

wearing heels or a tie,

it’s the same damn game:

eat the weak.

laugh at the one who believes in friendship.

use.

fake.

climb.

devour.

but in the end,

when the makeup’s off,

when the whiskey’s gone,

when the mirror doesn’t lie,

there they are:

alone.

with everything...

and with nothing.