the inside of the easter egg
is empty. paying for space,
the air is wrapped in cocoa
and golden foil. a bow,
the box, an idea.

A man in Deichmann
stands at the counter 
crushing flying saucers
into his mouth. His boots

are ragged as the claws 
that scuttle through Prufrock.
Sherbet is made of atoms,
the shop floor a library

of babble, cheap wallets 
the colour of stolen sit
strategically by the till,
like reincarnated baddies.

He taps his card onto the 
space-age, the wink-light 
blue as a pilot. His new shoes 
nestle in their crackling nest,

in dreams of acceleration.

grief 

Distant laughter is a bad opening,
the romance of loneliness is fabrication-
people are all around and receptive, 
open-armed, kinder than ageing.

You separate yourself with thoughts
of otherness- particularly sensitive
that day, even if every day. You are not
an intruder, they love you even if you

set yourself apart in awkwardness.
The inability to join in is not artistic,
it is an excuse to stay a science of
yourself, outsider, your nose pressed

against the window where a fire burns
in a faraway hearth and a family toast
marshmallows and laugh and lovingly 
smile at the other, gazing outward. 

what is she whispering?
we may never know

a silver bullet of a hiss:
the stench of a boss

asda you are some
fresh hell, i have lost
the passata, i am unclear
what passata actually is,

google says puree, i feel
it is inaccurate so panic,
the disorganised masses
cutting into me like a knife,

the unnecessary zig-zag,
the stopping, the starting,
the whirling and families
of a thousand children

pushing through me as if
i am transparent, no
courgetti left, i must
buy a spiraliser. i place 

papery physalis 
onto the wonky cherries 
in my pull along, this
tiny baggage, must not

put the soft things at the
bottom. please take
your items she says, please
take your items 

but the lady with the bags
for life is not paying
attention, she is swiping
her magic necklace

for unexpected items
in the baggage area! the 
sighs escape our mouths 
like waves on a boring beach

The cold that bites you,
the whistling winds. 

The polished floors,
ice and holes where

Eskimos flirt with fish.
Narwhal tusks into

Chinese medicine: Sex
dust. And the candy stalls-

bergs, dirty with sugar.
The colden days. March,

madness. Easter looms
in eggy bonnets, the tiny

chicks on wire feet. Press
yourself up to the Digital

Signage- catch the pixels
that spark into breath. 

asda gnomes
for giant gardens
not giant's gardens:
that would be unreasonable

awe.

eat some wows,

atoms. moats.

sweat,

waste.

 emote [meows] -

stems & mess.

woe.

AWESOMEstow

it is ready to go,

primed for sky.

how right 

that this future

needle might pierce

the hoary white

cloudlets. some 

time soon