Friday, 26 November 2010

#5: All Trends Destroy Me

I hustle down clockwork highstreets
past people slapping and haranguing
saddled boars.

They look down on me
because I refuse to ride a pig
to work.

'Bloody hipster,' I hear one hiss,
when he thinks I'm out of earshot.
He scowls and tugs at leather reins,

his hog's head deep
in a barrow of spoiled cabbages.
Pigs do not 'oink' - this is a myth.

But there are grunts and squeals aplenty
as I weave between bristled flanks,
take a right down Cribb St

then pull up at the office,
tethering my ostrich
to a silver birch by the carp pond.

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