tesco tragedian

The honey-colored air
drips over suburban lawns
policed by the negative police
standing guard over suburban mores
as Mrs Lear loses it in Tesco’s
because they have no brazil nuts,
and rants at the remote unfeeling gods.
“You bastards!!!!
I’ll shovel shit in your graves!
I’ll spit on your graven images!
I’ll piss on your altars!
you deaf and dumb Simon Cowell clones!”
Then she breaks down and weeps,
her painted fingernails clawing
the bitter fractious earth,
stroke Tesco’s laminated floor covering,
and the bemused assistants pause,
mid shelf stacking,
to stare uncomprehending,
and above them the Gods too,
taking note of Mrs. Lear’s aguish;
her heartfelt misery,
exchange concerned looks
for they do care,
only are prevented from interfering
by a clause in their contracts which states
‘if a mortal party of the first part,
influenced by a divine party of the second part,
is party to a part at a party,
(wearing a party hat ((divine or otherwise))
then the said party shall……’
Back home Mrs Lear cooks tea for Hubert.
For once she feels strangely forgiving
when he crankily insists
on watching the repeats of Top Gear
on Dave;
and as she does the dishes
the honey-colored air
drips over suburban lawns
lending all things that grow
an unearthly, ethereal glow.


Sunset.
Crow flit over the furrow.







Zen trousers 2009