Post Going Postal by Chris Stewart

“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.


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


his luck

less cogent.

antiquated is the pavement

his daily stamps

collect complimentary coffees

every six days



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.

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