Festivalisophobia

Have yourself a post-modern Christmas
with wrapping paper dressed
ironically over bike shaped
gifts and TV sized boxes.
Ungrateful yapping
and the smacking of lips
with new lip gloss gift sets
(3 for 2) or edible currency.

 

Turkey, plump and bitter
rotting against sticky cranberries.
Dry, flaky flesh doused in that
gravy you like, goosey potatoes
and a fuck-load of trimmings.

 

Live pause and rewind your TV again,
and again and again. Watch Delboy
Fall through the bar.

                                 Only at Xmas.
Rip open those foiled chocolate and feel
the sugar crack in your mouth
and the fat ooze into the space
between your teeth and gums.
            Your stomach
                 Inches outward.
                         Churning; your face

gurning into submission and fingering
stained glass papers.
relax and watch the foppish haired
kid keep out the intruders
for the 1000th time.

Read the first three pages
of your book
And wonder how many wonderful, fucked-
up things you can buy
with long lost cheques.

 

Race your remote control car
up the road for an hour. You’ll forget 
That you had that, next year.

 

———————————————–

A chocolate breakfast waits

up for you in the morning.

While you pore through the sport

channels and look for the latest squad updates

for your favourite team.

Eyes are leaden and dilated.

Drink and watch and laugh

and swear and drink and watch

until you feel those eyelids

 

Shut.

 

Wait for next year.
I’ll stay awake next year.

 

And so on and so on and so on.

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