Poetry

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 ranks,
From the supermarket to my draining board,
soldiers of misfortune.

The freezer hums clean monologues,
Externally behaved,
But inside rot and fungus grows,
Upon a cabbage grave.

Black bin liner, flop desolate,
For your fate will be to burst,
like an inverted anorexic.

Five scrape-left jars of pickles adorn my shelf.
I know I'll not complete.
I don't know why I keep them,
They're far too old to eat.

The sofa folds in upon itself,
Gathering scabby breadcrumbs,
In a bewildering attempt to make its cleft
More arse-like.

A souvenir of meals gone by,
Stains the wall and offends the eye.

The intricate patina of filth on my formica,
So closely 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.

Flak-jacket potatoes
And armoured sprouts are my munitions,
To scour the pallete
And test dentition.

I've invited the Provos to come and train,
We're trying 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,
But its belt is frayed
And its lung is holed
And it never sucks anything in.

My spin-dryer is being employed
As a wall of death by cornflakes -
I can't think of any other reason
They'd be in there.

Somewhere under that detritus,
There is a servant's body,
At least I suppose so
But it's been so many years
I really don't know.

The Boo is a nocturnal animal
That invests itself in nests
Inside television sets.
It prefers to hide behind the test-card.

Copyright K.E.Slaney (C) 1997