TV Dinner


TV Dinner

Back from a walk to the shops
that nearly did you in
you pull a pack of Bakewell fingers
from a blue plastic bag,
eat two, make me tea
then eat chocolate
because the pulse
says you haven’t got long.

Meanwhile, the crackpot chef
serves a Regency dinner:
cocks’ testicles like like glace beans
in a white chocolate egg
dusted with gold;
a boar’s head, reconstituted
as crown jewels
inside mock story-books;
best though, the gingerbread house,
with sugar stained-glass panes
which the celebs punch through,
seize jagged pieces and chew.

You’re not really looking.
The chef has mad designer eyes.
The pulse says nothing.

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