“You queue behind yourself” – Dan Ariely
..
He watches shoppers
In a queue of mirrors
Refracted like friezes
In a church pawnshop
..
He paste lists to do things over
His landlord’s refridgerator
So many Dilemmas spent
Whilst lovemaking
He wouldn’t intervene in other people’s posters
..
It’s all just a Primark catwalk, he thinks,
this jury of indigenous mannequins
wallpapers itself in streams of chat roulette
seeking much –
She asks – needed intimacy
..
Secure crimes in the anallemas
he daren’t disclose on application forms
disappear like polarised glasses
restraining the sun
to a badly scaled sci-fi romp
at his local showcase
..
His primary school education
Is his to be acquitted.
“Love,”
she says,
“Are you neatly folded, or
Irish? Like coffee?”
..
someone to be laughed at when approached
If it comes to this
She destroyed his Scalextric
If he is in control
It must come to
Blows. He’ll be Ben Sherman
She clearly has no point of reference
No rememberance
skoda could clean up here
his name was an unmeaning shirtlessness
footprints where he had already
Dithered
his luck
less cogent.
antiquated is the pavement
his daily stamps
collect complimentary coffees
every six days
regularly.
..
He is fixed
In their long term plan
He has queued up behind
His own rash decision
Hastily made
Deeply deadpanned
And stuffed.
He may even watch Crufts
If it placates her.
..
What the hell?
..
Ten years.
An entire decade
It’s not an exaggeration
He owns that
He owns that at least
He owns a lack of hyperbole
Ten years
Decimal time
Copper weighs so much heavier
Than his shortcomings.
The wishes add up
Like an old fashioned ten pence mix up.
Haribo can go fuck himself
It’s all E numbers
He can’t stand the taste
the chemicals.
Avatars only give him an idea to hate
But the mass dispersions of his gun casings
Wouldn’t discrimate against employees just doing their jobs
And the CEO’s.
..
He considers going postal
But he doesn’t work at Royal Mail.
..
Post coital he reflects on the wells he dispatched
The landfills he wasn’t responsible for
The years he stacked
The pastebooks of smoke filled rooms
He regrets he wished they outlawed.
the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky 