Friday, January 10, 2014

Month of poetry #9: Shopping centre

Four hours under fluorescents on the
day before Christmas: I call shopped out.
My vision splits into fractals and that
thing where you're supposed to like
shopping: I've flunked it bad.
Lulled into confusion by piped-in
waterborn music, I drift like a pool spy
with no liquid assignment. Coke-floated.
These massive centres dazzle with overkill
only mass marketing can provide,
on the 26th of December Santa
will disappear up the air vent
replaced by hot cross buns and bunny ears.
Shops juxtaposed by some evil genius
Pets Wonderland next to Schnitz
in case I want a schnauzer with my
weiner schnitzel. It's like shopping centres
jumped the shark and then the shark became the PM.
Jump cut and I'm in a toy section,
assessing fluff. Rows of kitties with wings,
I remember the poem about
the flying cat, or was it Chuck Jones or
Ursula le Guin and why are they still staring?
Wide-eyed plushy bunnies goggle,
and bobble their heads sideways
each as innocent as their countrymen.
The huge tortoises turn out to be a
toilet training seat-and-stool combo
and I've that's it I've backed out.

Includes suggestions from:

@johnnypurple: and then the shark became the PM
@attentive: waterborn music (Nifft the Lean)
@spikelynch: I call shopped
@ernmalleyscat: as innocent as their countrymen the huge Tortoises (log of Charles Darwin, Beagle)
@poolspy: pool spy
@timsterne: I want a schnauzer with my weiner schnitzel (Top Secret)
@JayJayCee1: the poem about the flying cat
@gingerandhoney: flunked it bad

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