Sweat. Shop.

clones

Sweat. Shop.

The fluorescent glow
Was her worst enemy as it incessantly showed
Toy parts smiling twistedly, along with the rest of the clones
They’d be leavin’ and she wouldn’t, the evil grins let it be known
As she painted ironic smiles on their leathery domes
It only served to remind her that she’s miles from her home
Parents gave her money to go, and quitting now won’t pay off the loan
And sitting down? A loss of two weeks wages like the signs have shown
Internally, she sighs and moans, lookin’ at the clock swearin’ time has slowed
Feels like a week since she awoke from a 4 hour sleep
Co-workers glower, they don’t have the power to speak
These females, a dirty secret in retail, cower and peek
Invisible, discrete, helpless at the feet of the powers that be.

 Inhaling chemical emissions from their positions
12 cents a day isn’t worth a pittance workin’ in the worst conditions
She’s losing weight working 14 hours straight, so what gets served in the kitchens
Coupled with being worked to the last nerve furthers the wishin’
For a breath of fresh air, but her attention is concerned with the itchin’

That’s turned red and is blisterin, emerging all over, why tell? nobodies listenin’
Bein’ malnurished furthers the inhibitions & murders the women’s ambitions
To break free from this prison, where doll parts blur in their vision
To eventually end up churlishly given, to a spoilt brat for behaving well
It’s not the dolls but the workers souls that were made to sell
Contractually compelled not to tell, so it’s ok for the factory owners to bathe in hell.

 
The real sweatshops where sweat drops and is turned into wet mops
It’s where breaths stop and souls slowly pop when it gets too hot
Sweltering in the heat at desktops, but it’s not on computer screens
Its where hands welt and swell for a toys’r’us shelf and consumer dreams
The tide of life is governed by illness and poverty, not lunar schemes
And the rumours seem, to die with the workers in a tumourous theme
The West doesn’t want nightmares, it wants YOU to dream…


…and in an act of defiance one worker painted from the heart
hoping and wishing for the change it could start…

*a ship container, one week later, a girl in a shop*

Mother,
Why does this one have bags under its eyes?
The hairs all dirty and its hands are tied.
Why is there a frown instead of a smile?
Whys the skin scarred, blistered and vile?
The lips are bleeding, why’s there no make up?
Why is one eye half closed, the other stays shut?
How come the hands are gnarled and swollen?
The left ones ok but the other ones broken.
The clothes are ripped and dirty, the frame is frail
It’s worth a year’s wages to a factory worker.. and it’s on sale

© LionAroundWriting

12 Comments

  1. You are quite right – I love it, what courage it would take to make one of those dolls real.. But as soon as salaries goes up, the factories move… Yes and what we consumers need to do is to say no. A good purchase is not about low price, but high value.

  2. This is amazing to read… I’ve thought of such things, just never seen the words written before. This was really good… it would make people think, see in their minds…. I’m honored you are following my blog; I came here to tell you. Gloria/Granny Gee/Colorful Granny

      1. Yeah I guess so. I’m in Laos now and the saddest thing is the beautiful, and rich and peaceful self-sustaining communities our hunger for modernisation forces them to leave. Development is truly a double edged sword…

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