climbing on, counting each step,
like it is a staircase of bones.
You slip like sand through his fingers.
Your brother, whose chubby cheeks which once you lovingly pulled
resemble deflated balloons,
the bags under his eyes - sacks of pain,
his face haunted with the same illness as you, the same venom,
the venom that seeps down from TVs and movies , from posters and magazines;
venom consisting of perfectly slim people.
They will bury you next to your brother,
with the plaques screaming in pain,
the tombstones shall tell how you both were
To this capitalist world.
Milkshake, haiku lover.