The Supermarket Poems

Robert Maddox-Harle

Robert Maddox-Harle (aka Rob Harle)

Primal Desire

fingers tap a tune of stress

as lasers fail to hit their target

impatiently, sagging in her boredom

she taps the numbers in by rote.

a glance sideways heaves a sigh

the five dollar digital chronograph,

her only link with the world outside,

disappoints vague desire.

lunch break way too far over the horizon,

not even a mirage of hope

to appease her weariness.

more tapping

more red blips

more - plastic - packaged - pulp

black conveyor belt of sustenance

jerks me back from transient coma,

am I an alien in this landscape?

or the landscape an alien in me?

I fret

will I be able to survive this torture,

Just Once More?

Can I suppress the urge to run wild,

to answer deep human needs?

Yes! Yes!

next week I’ll steal, secretly, silently

a shiny, red apple

waxed - cooled - irradiated - sprayed

Yes!

that will satisfy my primal desire for adventure ,

for life.

The Dark Night of the Troll

Hiding in seedy back-street alleys

intractable vagrants

loitering in the dark corners of car parks,

multiplying like warm yeast cells

these trolls are dangerous to humans.

Evolved from underworld trolls of the past

they have morphed into clone-like entities

with bodies of chrome-steel and plastic,

their wheels hideous genetic mutations.

They have infiltrated our cities

like corporate viruses,

lurking patiently

deceiving us with their apparent servility,

do not be fooled

these four-wheeled monsters,

like their Gopher cousins,

are enigmatically evil.

Trolls damage goods,

trolls damage bodies,

teasing us to overfill their bellies.

Oozing out from The Palaces of Hell,

with bloody Achilles' heels

blood-smeared knuckles

torn shoulder ligaments,

we shudder along behind.

Self-determined the trolls charge forward

ripping the paint from the sides of cars,

smashing the corners off concrete columns.

Like all shrewd parasites

trolls do not mean to kill 

but bring turmoil and torment.

Join your nearest Anti-Troll Society soon,

demand implantation of human-friendly control chips

demand modification of their DNA.

We must have happy subservient trolls

we must help these tormented wretches,

help them emerge from their Dark Night.

Death by Supermarket
 

she approached ... cautiously

the palace of infinite possibilities,

turning the key in the lock of transcendental time

the kingdom of treasures dissolved

like ecumenical mists,

like quickly dissolving paracetamol,

she felt like a needlework surrealist

unravelling a tapestry of geometric anomalies.

moving forward ... cautiously

floating over the subcultural fringe dwellers

feeling the fleshy frugality

the palpable human frailty,

tasting an inner fragrance of bewilderment

like fragments of a lost melody

she crashed into the fluorescent glare.

moving further into the realm of lost souls

she fell through a dark hole in the planetary ground,

plummeting downwards

like a burnout balloonist

she felt heavy with fear,

lost in the ruins of someone else's nightmare.

shoving her leaden troll

pulsating with plastic packets

up through the hole in frozen confectionery

she lurched towards the crumpled

check-out chick,

a red-haired, big-breasted brute,

obese with red-brick reasoning,

with surgical scanner and surgical smile.

approaching the brute the spinning started,

turning and spiralling,

falling into the glittering chrome troll,

suffocated by pulsating plastic packets

and unrelenting exhaustion

her life exploded.

Paracetamol

some knowing reaches beyond barriers

beyond restrictions of medicated simplicity

beyond the impediment of Supermarket Society.

push the troll

carefully, carefully,

packets, tins, bottles watch impatiently

JUMPING at my face,

labels vying for “ATTENTION”.

processed processions of blankness

disappoint the blandness of Home Brand,

an invisible voice screams

distorted beyond clarity,

and sanity,

urging participation in

Today’s Special,

BBQ Chickens  ( +  stuffing).

Caution! Caution! Slippery Floor!

footprints of glass and tomato sauce fade

disappearing into the distance of Aisle 9,

a wide woman pushes past

knuckle skin smears the edge of troll steel

my blood trickles out

drip, drip

the cardboard of Cornflakes turns red

I reach for the toilet paper

And  Paracetamol

Troll(ey) to A(isle)9

row after row after row

silver steel trolls

stacked silently,

waiting,

awaiting the grip of my warm hands

a jerk of the wrist

violent Coitus Interruptus

and we wobble on our way.

stack upon stack upon stack
cardboard cartons of eggs

stacked silently,

waiting,

waiting and swelling and hatching

eggs become chickens

miniature battery hens

Eveready to solve the universal paradox.

shelf upon shelf upon shelf

sturdy steel stairways to heaven

provisions for the mythical mystical journey,

I slip past, a sly smirk

saviours, savouries, sauces

shadows in the chessboard, chequerboard floor,

my move,

Troll to A9.

light upon light upon light

burning cold

burning into my back,

burning coldness

coldness, colder than midnight graveyard vigils

chilling my grip on the troll steel

chilling my grip on childhood,

I wobble off, terrified

sadistic troll dragging me into A8

and Checkmate.

Fat Duck Road

Gazing down from the Devil's Pulpit

I see temptation in all directions,

obese signs at the start of Fat Duck Road.

Check-out print-outs pass the metre mark,

fast food, manufactured fast, in a hurry

running fast down Fat Duck Road,

high carbs, globules of lard saturated with salt

make my journey slippery,

scary.

Scanning around the Devil's Pulpit

I see desperation and confusion,

freedom to choose everything,

flash, seventy-nine varieties

chemically fixed, colourated, saturated

cracker snackers

I'm too long into the journey now,

too late to turn back,

too late to exit,

stuck

like a jammed wheel on a troll.


Crossing the Devil's Pulpit

I tailgate a bent old lady,

little legs braced by plastic, elastic stockings

her uncontrollable troll

with frozen wheels and rust

bashes into the crackers.

I move to the passing aisle,

damn it, no horn on this troll,

too late the kid slips

Caution Wet Floor,

the sign means nothing

the brat is three or four, on the floor

head first under my troll,

screaming and snivelling for the blob

the blob with great bulging naked belly,

hanging like blubber over grey torn trackies.

Staring out from the Devil's Pulpit

I see deserted shops,

empty monuments to retail greed,

the grandeur of Fat Duck Road is fading.

Surrounded by mountains of food,

I am still starving.

Surrounded by flashing neon promises of satisfaction

I am still unfulfilled

Trolls attack me from all sides

red blips, electronic chirps, flying pin numbers

pierce my head,

I pay with plastic

as the plastic, packaged pulp

moves along the conveyor from troll to plastic.

Have A Nice Day.

Palaces of Hell

ENTRY ONLY!

Bags checked on Exit!   Security cameras in Operation!

Welcome!

to the Palace of Hell,

a fat lady’s remark

by chance I remember

cast caustically, cynically

as she smeared a dead pig with lard.

Aisle 11 - kitchen utensils - pasta - garbage bags!

cold steel shelves stacked high

subservient to grotesque utility,

bathed in fluorescent coldness,

I coerce my recalcitrant troll forward,

Aisle 12 - rubber gloves - condoms - bleach,

uncontrolled and uncontrollable child monster

hurls packages from the twisted troll,

woman screams, out of control stress surges

overbalance, Factor 10, screaming

child hits the floor

blood trickles from its filthy nose,

more stress surging screaming,

security guard materialises

appears from behind the Rice Bubbles

snap, his huge hand secure

resting, poised on his hip-holstered handgun

I coerce my recalcitrant troll forwards

towards Aisle 15 and freedom.

EXIT ONLY!

Setu, March 2018