Corrupted Red Suit
Santa smiles,
But he staggers in a corrupted red suit,
bells clinking with the weight of coin.
The sleigh groans under ledger books,
trinkets stamped with barcodes of desire.
Candy canes drip corporate logos,
chimneys choke on smoke and microplastics.
Angels no longer whisper good or bad,
they audit lists of profit and loss.
Moonlight falls over neon advertisements,
elves clock in beneath harsh fluorescent light.
The star above bleed into streetlamps,
gold melts into taxes, interest, and debt.
Children trade dreams for glittering screens,
joy reduced to transaction,
faith compressed into seasonal obligation.
Santa smiles, but only at the balance sheet.
Christmas 1
Santa is a capitalist ghost,
his sleigh dragging debt across the sky,
Rudolph’s red nose glowing with compliance,
Prancer’s tightrope is a balance sheet,
and the elves march to the tune of profit,
their bombs disguised as wrapped boxes.
They tell me to kneel, to believe, to consume,
to find salvation in tinsel and conformity.
I do not kneel.
I do not believe.
I do not consume.
I watch the magic die and wonder
if freedom is only visible in the absence of rules.
The malls pulse like dead hearts,
fluorescent veins pumping false desire,
every gift a nail in the coffin of imagination,
every sale a sermon of obedience,
and I walk among them like a ghost
unbought, unsold, unclaimed.
I spit on their jingles and their jingling registers,
their holy trinity of credit, debt, and consumption.
The season is a machine for erasing wonder,
a cathedral of noise that buries the self.
If Christmas is death made pretty,
then I will lie in its wreckage
and count the absence it leaves behind.
Christmas (Inbetween)
Christmas folds into pōhutukawa branches,
sunlight red and ledgered.
Santa streaks across the sky:
comet of wonder, tally of consequence.
Rudolph’s nose bleeds light and warning.
Prancer pirouettes on ocean wind,
wire stretched tight over delight and profit.
Elves chatter, laughter tangled with obligation,
hands weaving magic and accounting in one breath.
The child shouts: “It is real!”
The adult whispers: “It is sold.”
Cicadas vibrate tension,
waves mark awe and insight,
heart split, rhythm discordant,
somehow harmonizing.
A tether exists between heat and glare:
belief bends without breaking,
clarity does not kill delight,
wonder and understanding cohabit
if the child peeks
while the adult watches.
Christmas is a tightrope over ridge and sea,
feet trembling between awe and comprehension.
For a moment, the child and adult smile;
same breath, same heartbeat,
the impossible magic
both real and merciless.