When you’ve got the plan of
your life
matched to the time it will
take
but you just want to press
SHIFT / BREAK
and print over and over
this is not what I was after
this is not what I was after.
When you’ve finally stripped
out the house
with its iron-cold fireplace,
its mouldings, its mortgage,
its single-skin walls
but you want to write in the
plaster
“This is not what I was after,”
when you’ve got the
rainbow-clad baby
in his state-of-the-art
pushchair
but he arches his back at you
and pulps his Activity Centre
and you just want to whisper
“This is not what I was after,”
when the vacuum seethes and
whines in the lounge
and the waste-disposal unit
blows,
when tenners settle in your
account
like snow hitting a stove,
when you get a chat from your
spouse
about marriage and personal
growth,
when a wino comes to sleep in
your porch
on your Citizen’s Charter
and you know a hostel’s
opening soon
but your headache’s closer
and you really just want to
torch
the bundle of rags and
newspaper
and you’ll say to the
newspaper
"This is not what we were after,
this is not what we were after.”