Insecure Robot

Provisions piling up in my arms
Clutching cheese
Losing grapes
I, B McF, holder of loyalty card
Spurner of baskets
Arrive at self-checkout
Thus sidestepping the choking terror
Of till small-talk:
"How are you?"
"Would you like a bag?"
Shaking hands
Wallet-dropping perspiration.
I scan my items through
Praying that all goes smoothly
And no assistance is necessary.
I have a bottle of cooking sherry
For emergencies.
The machine beeps:
"Approval needed!"
"All right" I say.
"You're good at scanning things."
Insecure Robot.
I fail to win her over.
"Wait for assistance."
I'm no good at compliments.

A Miscarriage of Justice

I saw him shivering and flinching

His two back legs crushed

His black eyes wide with shock.

I asked him if he was all right.

But he didn't reply.

I called the police and told them

Of the heinous, wicked

Evil act. The clues, suspicions

A complete account of the facts.

They thanked me for my thoroughness

But told me that it was not their business.

That perhaps I should find a sturdy stick

And cave the victim’s skull in with it.

They told me more and finally that

They have not the powers to arrest a cat.

Intruder!

I hide in the cupboard

Between the cornflakes

Below the spluttering boiler

Above the milk lake.

It’s dark in the cupboard

There’s a small crack of light

I peak through the slit

At the man in my sight

He’s scoffing my toast

The crumbs fall on the floor

He chews and he snuffles

And then gets up for more.

He wears my grey dressing gown

He’s fat and he’s mad

He scratches his bottom

And then sniffs his left hand.

He uses the shower gel

And leaves on the tap

Flecks the mirror with toothpaste

And never replaces the cap

I hide in this cupboard

And creep out by night

I piss in a flower pot

Forever planning my flight

But he’s going next Tuesday

He says it’s just for a while

Pubic hair in my bathroom

Unspeakably vile.

I can’t let him find me,

I wish he were gone.

This trespassing usurper,

My brother John.

Game of Unknowns...

I’ve heard tales told of Games of Thrones
These 3 years past and before in weighty tomes.

Of dragons and fire and spectral demons.

Cruel King Joffrey, The Red Wedding.

The fate of the Starks, the rise of the Lannisters.

The golden hues of King's Landing.

The imposing frozen Wall.

Intrigue, war, incest, revenge.

The soft curve of exposed breasts.

The dangling of occasional testicles.

Seven Kingdoms, but three questions:

What's going on?
Which one is he?
What kind of accent is that meant to be?

Planet Snot

Curl-ed up in a snot ball duvet

Nested in scrunched up snotballs.

My children.

Snotty moons orbit

The glowing source of all snot.

A volcano of viscous sticky fluid

That dries and rips skin from nose.

Fusing tissue to skin.

I rasp and gurgle into papery rags

Ball them up

And expel them

On to the mattress.

To Dream The Dream

I works I in a Post Room works I

Letters see I and spreadsheets fill I.

Small grey pinecone women opposite I,

Shivers she in the slightest breeze

When man comes he to change the bins.

Loud mouth old women she sit next there

And nervous manager her with deadeye stare

Glancing at I screen to see I work

Close I window to Book Face him.

Someone files post in wrong box.

Someone miscounts order of lanyards.

Someone orders pens with wrong cost code.

Wailing, gnashing of teeth, internal investigation.

“Oh Gawd” laments pinecone, with deathly, loan moorland wail,

Lenses smeared with the heat of tears.

Where Everybody Knows Your Shame

Do you remember Cheers?
Sam’s tragic handsomeness.
The discomforting Carla.
Woody's self-contained idiocy.
Norm's disheveled pessimism.
Rebecca's whirlwind of despair.
Cliff's oddball stories.
The alienation of Frasier Crane.
And that extra who was sat at the bar for 20 years and never said a word.
Smiling when directed, frowning when requested.
Mutely graying.
Brooding.
Plotting.
Revenge.