Tag: Food is Love

When will it begin


facing up to facts ; my god what have i done
uninvented the wheel 
mislaid a chocolate orange ; 
spilt sump oil on paper; 
found still life in plaster cast
contorted red onion; wearing no knickers
show house trial ordeal; 
Post morteM Queries squirrels 
(part of a 
series they say; poor old dearies 
battle it out hard at war; 
halcyon daze escapes them; 
hangs 'em up high
in the fatuous sun, 
no point quibbling over timespace; 
escape to the as was suntrap shed on 
sleepy rusty wheels; heliotropic heads turn 
waltzers ship alight 
fandango with a gypsy melody; 
lights on no ones in
did you get in the bin and 
prod the lazy daisies; 
neither toil nor sow these days; 
shell shock of the toe I guess; either the way what's new?
uncross your legs when I'm talking to you
your making the place look tidy & that's quite enough
of that they say if you don't use it you lose it
so that doesn't matter if you suss you never had it
in the first place Listen to me I'm talking to you
who shut down the voices they were my only friends
I do not have a mobile phone as I am static
funny five minutes get over it
think about Portsmouth beating a villain

don't cross your legs I said as if you were watching telly
downstairs day in day out self medicated to the spot or doodling 
in your picture books and playing with your paintset
this is an almighty kick up the ass I am you giving while trying not
to cross your legs like I said not to...

I arrive in early January. Frustration has been building up 
in Portsmouth since the brief burst of anticipation 
that followed Myrtle Swinburne's  assumption of the 
presidency in November. 
As the months went on and no obvious changes took place, 
as unemployment failed to fall and the currency swung wildly, 
the urban areas in particular grew increasingly angry. 
My mate Marmite, who works 
for an international organisation in Shiloh, said 
head riots were predicted before the end of the rainy season. 
The rainy season ends in April. The city didn’t even make it close.
Portsmouth was both bully and victim, cruel and pitiable. 
He whipped his horses mercilessly, and sometimes his underlings too. 
He tortured his oxen, knocking them on their heads 
with an axe he had made specially for that purpose, 
and roaring with laughter when they bellowed in agony. 
Sticking frogs with the prong of a fork was another of his pastimes. 
Domestic servants he disliked were held down and forced to drink beer
mixed with jalap and mustard, while others were fed with nothing 
but water-gruel and mustard for a week. 
He threw himself on one of his coachmen 
with such force that he broke the man’s leg. 
If a child who passed him in the street did not raise his hat, 
Portsmouth would order him to be slain.
When the United Irish rebellion of 1798 
raged around his Wexford estates, he wrote to an uncle 
that his tenants had been appropriately slaughtered 
and his estate laid to waste. 
All he seems to have cared about, however, 
was the impact of the loss of rent on his finances, 
which he used as an excuse for not helping his uncle 
out with a gift of money. From an Irish viewpoint, 
the Portsmouths were archetypal absentee landlords, 
a phenomenon that would contribute a century or so later 
to the ousting of that class from its 
dominant position in the country.

Brad the Impaler


Faron Young

Paling to significance,

Brad the Impaler, a pied butcher bird,

whistles a chirpy tune

(Imagine, if you will,

a melodic baritone

bicycle here)

and skewers a shrew for the barbie.

Life read and heard in tooth and claw,

one sighs through clenched teeth.

‘This is all the weather you get,

so you’d best enjoy it…Grrghh!’

says a balaclavad scimitar weatherman.

I will, I will!

Promise I will, croons Brad.

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Showered & ranted,
Ridicule rip reprimand
overbearing customs
such root treatment twangs
raw defenceless nerves
Made safe my escape

Whassup! Asylum seeking?
heard some smokes about,
grub waits in the fridge,
bread is sliced and
ready for toaster,
fresh eggs attend hens largesse

Yet what to do today
tugs away at me.
Slippery old customer,
hanging around the deli
without a ticket,
waiting to be asked
what he wants so she
can say, ‘What tastes nice?’



I find food works well

better than anything else

in times of hunger

nutritional substitutes

just do not take the biscuit

Cakes & Whales


mad cows derail trains

jaffa-cake or biscuit chat

light or dark matter

one suspicious lump or two

Serengeti radio

yawning hippopotamus

could eat the lot of us



Give me a home where

considerably more that this

is worth insuring:

a home fit for genuine

black forest gateaux

made from real black forest trees

and Gemutlichkeit

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