Excisions from the brain of a demented housewife.
By Gillian G.Mason
There's a Bosnia in my kitchen,
A landmine in my loo.
A past-participle passed me by,
On the way to Timbuctoo.
Bargain washing-up liquid containers
March in serried
From the supermarket to my draining board,
The freezer hums clean monologues,
But inside rot and fungus grows,
Upon a cabbage grave.
Black bin liner, flop desolate,
For your fate will be to
like an inverted anorexic.
Five scrape-left jars of pickles adorn my shelf.
I'll not complete.
I don't know why I keep them,
They're far too old to
The sofa folds in upon itself,
In a bewildering attempt to make its cleft
A souvenir of meals gone by,
Stains the wall and offends
The intricate patina of filth on my formica,
resembles clean marble worksurfaces,
It must be the result of witchcraft.
The Spanish Inquisition have arranged
For me to be
broken on the little wheel,
Of a baked-bean uncrusted tin-opener.
And armoured sprouts are my
To scour the pallete
And test dentition.
I've invited the Provos to come and train,
semtex to clear my drain.
I did the shake-and -vac
'til it bleached my nasel hair
But it didn't really clean the mat -
The chewing-gum's still there.
My turbo-tronic Hoover,
Makes a fearsome din,
its belt is frayed
And its lung is holed
And it never sucks anything
My spin-dryer is being employed
As a wall of death by
I can't think of any other reason
They'd be in there.
Somewhere under that detritus,
There is a servant's
At least I suppose so
But it's been so many years
The Boo is a nocturnal animal
That invests itself in
Inside television sets.
It prefers to hide behind the test-card.
Copyright K.E.Slaney (C) 1997