Bleak dawn broken by the roaring grind of machines
Exhausted, they sit in patience, their listless eyes famished
Inch by inch they creep
Until at last, the golden letters of salvation break the horizon:
I-K-E-A
From the far corners of the land they come
The tired, the young, the old and the poor
Their weekly pilgrimage
Mecca: The promised land of low prices and domestic conformity
They crowd her doors, frenzied masses
To hear her eulogy of Hope,
Touting the Theology of Material Consumption:
Salvation from the maladies of urbanism
Sainted clerks patiently listen to confessions of desire, need
Kindly pointing the pilgrims towards the overflowing shelves
Relics perched high, displayed for the devoted
Cooing, in awe they touch and stare with lustful eyes
Commercial absolution from their woes and tight budgets
For those of a stronger constitution and impoverished pockets
Deep in the warehouse the Catacombs beckon
Scavengers troll through the discarded and forgotten relics of yore
Cracked and broken bits, skeletons of discontinued models
On sale, ½ price
Eagerly, the followers line up to buy trinkets by the handfuls,
Amulets to protect against their reality.
With each pilgrimage they dream
Praying for the day when their gnawing hunger will subside,
Their domestic simplicity finally complete.
Yet it will never end, for with each sack they return home
With each new catalog, as to Pavlov’s Bell
They return for their fix, their relics faded, hunger renewed
The unattainable vision dangled before them:
Luxurious, perfect interiors will a happy life make...
Money doesn’t buy everything you know.