Wednesday, 7 May 2014

I am in Aldi on Tuesday night looking for wine and comfort food following a multi city video conference about poetry and alternative press

What is that smell? It’s like. No biscuits today. Bread looks good. Got some already. Sort of not barbecue but smoky. Cheap chocolate. Not the cheapest. Suzy asked me last time if I thought she was cooking with it. A joke. Not that funny. More ironic. Ironical? 39p for four bulbs of garlic. Roasted garlic. It is really something. Just squirting a bulb of brown roasted slimy roasted gorgeous garlic into my mouth is reason enough to be alive. Tomatoes. Shit raw, great cooked.

Gunpowder. That’s it. Cheap fucking jeans. Why gunpowder? I think I smelt it when I got them. Eight quid you get what you get. And people died in that factory building. Safe to read in Guardian, anyway. No collapses there. Words are fictions. I read that too. Olive oil. Nope. Two quid here, a fiver for a tiny bottle in the stupid hippy shop, rebranded as medicine. Lamb reared under humane standards. So cute in a field, tasty on a fork. It is indefensible. The tongue is mightier than the brain.

Breaded ham. Bearded ham. Gordon’s ALIVE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!Gordonzola. Gianfranco Zola at the near post backheel flick goal a hunchback genius everyone loves him. I like it when John Terry cries, he crumples like a soggy biscuit dunked just a second too long in a nice cup of tea. Skimmed milk. Diet cola. Three bottles of wine. Cotes du Rhone. Coats of Rome. Pasta in the shape of cock and balls on sale next to Trevi Fountain. They say the water is bleached these days. And so what anyway. Tourists. Everyone hates and are, is, them.

Dark rum, white rum. No price difference. Curtis pours you extra if you tip him more. Wednesday club in the sun. Shorts on for four years. The first rule of Wednesday Club is: No girls. Unless they are serving us booze. Aqua Beach is bikini Wednesdays. Unbearable. British. The urge to look and appreciate is the same as the leer of guilt. Head down then passing a note to the bar manager. Aii dios mio.

Fucking jeans. Making me sick. Everyone can hear that smell. Yeah well done you idiot, put your stuff right at the back end and watch it trundle down to the till. Then we can all hold our nice heavy baskets for a few seconds longer. Fuck off. God if only I could kick you up the arse just once that would be reason enough to be... but not. Never as good as it seems. Not as grand as roast garlic. Garlic pills ten quid for 30. Four bulbs for 39p. Rots in the fridge in the Caribbean. Potatoes too, shit. Take my word for it, life is all about a perfect potato. You don’t know the half of it.

Shit is that all? Not even twenty quid. Why am I always surprised?

Ah fuck, I think I’ve been thinking in poetry prose bollocks.

Fucking conference calls.

Fuck off.

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