Week

Imagine if the sky cracked open
like a cheap plate
and through the cracks seeped
tiny coach-horses
topped by even tinier men
and the tinier men held aloft
scripted banners
and on these banners smeared out
your most putrid daydreams
and then they made you eat the banners
you were literally chowing down
on your worst nightmares
and the tiny men made you
pretend you liked the taste
like a wizened auntie
serving up congealed Fray Bentos
and you say 'no, no-
I do not want to eat the pie -
I do not like food from a can
and it tastes like the seventies'
but you eat it
and the tang of flabby beef
stays with you all week.
Imagine that.