Slumdog not-millionaire

Talent goes to die in the slums

where cigarette ash reads lines

Algebra tables and canterbury tales

whisped away by holes in the floor

where wind bleeds between the cracks;

“Maybe they might be fucking scum”

from between the eyebrow blades 

cast so high on the shelf of diveted gold, 

Horn-rimmed glasses and soured coffee by age, 

Divides are given rather than earned

and great talent is spurned; 

Fortunes one-oh-one, four in a row

Spaced evenly, neat industrial white

that forgets the old blood of exploited souls, 

and scaped goats that carried the weight of war, 

Measure gold in one hand and pocket the other

Is why talent is forgotten in the slums

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