A machine that you go into as a pig and come out a sausage
The sausage looked so lonely
in the chip shop window
I had to buy it.
But I made a mistake
because the sausage was evil.
As soon as I unwrapped the soggy paper
I knew
this was a diabolical purchase.
I just get that spooky feeling about stuff
sometimes.
Like our German room-mate’s
well-worn Birkenstocks.
Bastard things in the world.
I carefully placed the greasy sausage
onto a clean plate that was still
a bit wet from the dishwasher.
It looked fine.
It smelled fine.
I threw it away and left the room.
That’s when it spoke to me,
with a voice like a chewed-up dog toy
squeaking in the depths
of the kitchen bin.
Do you want to know what it said?
No, of course you don’t.
No one wants to hear
what an evil sausage
has to say.
I did find, however, if you pay attention
to such phenomena
you can access the truth.
You sense the wickedness
in your surroundings
and the cruelty
in your neighbours.
At least, that’s what I thought
until Sock Head told me
they arrested Henry:
‘Why do you think
he always stayed with friends
who have small children…’
I threw up yellow string
by the side of the road
and started worrying
about everyone I know.
Were they evil?
I couldn’t tell any more.
That’s when I walked by the chip shop
and saw that godforsaken sausage.
I was vulnerable, you see.
The thought of carrying a device
that connects us
to more human suffering
than the brain
can possibly process
suddenly appeared to me
as a severed head
floating
through an empty supermarket.
I was feeling guilty
for neglecting my family.
My poor nan has been waiting
months for me to visit.
She lives two streets away
from the chip shop
in a small flat
full of fake cats
curled up
in cute little baskets.
She used to paint the same ugly horse
over and over again.
Never told us its name.
Maybe I’ll go see her tomorrow.
I need more information
about the beast she sees
creeping out of the asphalt.
It's my favourite story.
Nan loves telling that one,
her flimsy hands mauling the air
as she rises out of her rocker,
showcasing the scene
with effortless
B-movie
grace.
'I’m such a bad friend’.
I was sitting under my desk in the garage,
smoking weed through a clay skull bong,
when I saw Frank’s tattooed legs
stagger up the sunlit driveway
and collapse in my chair.
He looked haunted.
Things must be really bad, I thought,
for Frank to come here.
Even when we were friends
we rarely saw each other.
Feeling silly, I pretended
to be a groaning zombie,
rising from behind
my cluttered desk,
which made him nervous.
‘How are you?’ I asked, searching for a lighter.
‘How are you?’ He mimicked, folding his arms.
I gently raked my fingers
across the brick wall,
imagining sparks.
The ice cream van went by
cranking its creepy old stories.
Maybe it was a Sunday
because there was a sad stillness
and I could hear bells.
I was about to apologise
when Frank said, ‘I can’t stop
watching horrible things.
It’s like they’ve built a nest in my brain
and now the wires are tangled.’
I think he was talking about porn,
but he might have been talking
about the news.
‘Does this mean you’re angry with God?’
I was being mischievous.
I’ve never met anyone who believes in God
the way Frank believes in God.
I took my hat off to show him
how much hair I’m losing.
‘Remember when we were kids…’ I said.
‘Remember when we were kids…’ He repeated.
Frank tried to remove his enormous black shirt
which seemed to grow bigger
the more he struggled.
I don’t know if he expected me to help.
It was too hot to expect anything.
Then both of us were trapped
in his black shirt, as it swallowed
my garage and covered the house.
‘Are you lost?’ I shouted
into Frank’s billowing blackness.
‘Because I want to tell you
my side of the story.’
Your application for Personal Independence Payment has been declined
I was racing through the park
in a stolen wheelchair
on the hottest day of the year
when I saw
your chronic pain
on the playing field
throwing tennis balls
for the neighbourhood dogs.
It had a seemingly
endless supply
which it plucked
from what looked like
a body bag.
I was disgusted with myself
for using again.
My spit was thick and sticky
from eating
too many oranges.
A little girl was flying
a kite that wasn’t actually a kite
it was a bad-tempered doctor
biting the clouds.
A gang of shirtless boys
armed with axes and hammers
were merrily destroying
the new playground.
I thought I saw my parents
buried waist deep
in the sandpit
shrieking like seagulls.
I emptied a bottle of water over my head
hoping it would bring me
closer to you.
When that didn’t work
I gathered broken glass
from the forgotten basketball court
and put the pieces in my mouth.
Late afternoon sun
dripped like morphine
through the shivering trees.
Your pain was so impressive
even the ice cream man
was crying.
__________________________
Bobby Parker was born in 1982 in Kidderminster, Worcestershire. His debut poetry collection Blue Movie (2014) is available from Nine Arches Press. He has taught at The Poetry School and been widely published in print and on-line. Working Class Voodoo, his latest collection, was published in 2018 by Offord Roads Books.
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