Have we over-stocked the kitchen-shelves
with food we won’t consume?
Have we stuffed the cupboards, inch by inch,
until there’s no more room
to add the bits we’re off to buy
on this week’s shopping trips,
packing goods into our bags like it’s
“The Shopping Championships”…
because consumerism’s in our blood
– yes –
we’ve been primed to salivate…
then we will stack stuff ’til we dump it
once it’s past its use-by date.
Did you think I wouldn’t still be wild
because I like a fricassee of lamb
or sometimes mild
– like consomme –
to wet my lips?
A chewy, stewy, ratatouille even hits
the pleasure spot
on days when cottage pies
and canapes cannot be found
a kitchen door
where smells of cannelloni,
tandoori, kedgeree and Peking duck will
waft and lead me by my nose
to pillage and to forage
past the sleeping Labrador to chase
inside the swinging door.
Scottish foxes favour grouse
but change their ways and won’t
approach a country house
on shooting days.
When that pot plant in your window
sprouts an extra sprig and grows
at twice the rate that you expect
then really, no-one knows
if it’s just because you water it
and feed it proper food
or that you always talk to it
and praise its pulchritude.
On the other hand, that weedy stump
that simply never thrives
whose shrunken stem and motley leaves
seem woefully deprived,
perhaps its wishy-washy ways
and ho-hum lassitude
are there because it’s picked up
on your grumpy attitude.
Sorry for the disruption to normal artistic flow, but my ‘Future Pollution Solutions’ drawing has gone walkabout and is currently wandering through a maze of Tamil script somewhere out there in the tangled network of tripwires we all inhabit.
If anyone should happen to Google an image of two Hazmat suits trolleying endlessly down a supermarket aisle, could they please redirected (mother and child) back to the security of their “econewseverse” origins so that this small universe can continue to be free, fair and fearless once more.
Step into your hazmat suit : it’s Twenty-thirty-nine.
It’s dark and dismal, grey and grim – although, the weather’s fine.
Stop breathing at the count of ‘ten’, and practice changing masks.
I know it’s inconvenient, but it’s wise to hone these tasks.
Don’t let your goggles slip too far – or else your eyes will burn.
It’s tricky with these rubber gloves, but not too hard to learn.
Now, read the Geiger-counter up and down the grocery aisles :
you can’t rely on toxin-lists that stretch for miles and miles.
And don’t forget to give the checkout girl a friendly wave.
She’s from another time and finds it strange, how we behave.
She might be covered top to toe in hazmat, just like you
but these courtesies remind us that we’re human through and through.
The future won’t be pretty
and it won’t be very smart,
but somewhere underneath the sea
is where the world will start
to mend its broken promise
and its accidental lies
and its trail of good intentions…
when the hidden monsters rise.
They will rise up from the depths
where they have so far been asleep.
So be prepared to mix it
with strange whoppers from the deep.
Owls are not cuckoos
and they shouldn’t be confused.
To say an owl looks “cuckoo”
only leaves the owl bemused.
Let the leaves fall and tumble to the ground.
Let the leaves gather and crumble all around.
Let the leaves wither and settle in a pit.
Bring along a donkey and add a plop of s**t.
Eat a bite of apple and bury half the core.
Sprinkle on some water, and then a little more.
Wait for half~a~dozen years until you get a crop.
Come back with that donkey and cart them to the shop!
Wild cats prowl in the jungle.
Big cats prowl in the zoo.
But when pussy-cats prowl down dark alleys,
you should know a thing or two
about the nature of their hunting
– hunting rats…and mice…and birds.
To imagine they’re discerning
is – by nature – quite absurd.