It’s a catch-up day…I’m aiming to get 10, 11, 12 and maybe 13 on here this afternoon – eek!
Here’s Thursday’s poem – which was supposed to be an advertisement, but came out as something (also prompted by 52) both to do with consumerism, identity and an overlooked object…
Did You Use Any of Your Own Bags?
or, The Crackling Sausage
I unstuff it onto the floor, in search
of the gaping chaotic drawer
of childhood. This cylinder,
a test tube in which are fizzily mixed
a potion of all our
Debenhams House of Waitrose
notions of ourselves, with the
Wilko T K Maxx Pets at Home Sports Direct
realities, among the glowing orange
catalyst of Sainsbury’s
(whose logo fills our window).
This was a distant thing –
I’d see it at Daniel Bell’s house
as we were given milk before bed
positioned next to a pristine
Brabantia bin. Not in our
bottom drawer: there, the tendrils
of Tesco crackled out, whenever you sought
to store your almost-forgotten PE kit.
By the way, we recently tried a new
black pudding which, instead of blood,
is reimagined out of beetroot and pulses.
So I think of it, stately
by my tiny shiny silver pedal bin,
as dense as a diary.
Saveloy thick, but contained
by stitches thin.
As the Mother of the Self Checkout
sings its enquiry at me:
Did You Remember to Bring Any of Your Own Bags?
And so, with heavy sausage fingers,
I click “No”.