As Tender As Exploding Teargas Grenades In The Palace Of Skimmed Goats' Milk

An elephants' graveyard of vacuum cleaners - 
Acoustic, unplugged, John Cage. 
A light dust sheen accumulates around their trunks: 
The all-tangled Cro Magnon robot compost heap, 
Slumming in the open-plan tomb of my jazz-gloom basement. 

Another one every year or so I add to their numbers - 
Another perished vacuum, sucked down, down the mouse-musk mire. 
It's all Crimewatch and The Wire. 

Am I The East London Vacuum Cleaner Strangler, 
Or, maybe The Newham One? 

Imagine watching the TV news - the cardboard talking-head "neighbour": 
Yeah, yeah. I saw him in shop once, 
Where he bought milk made with goats. 
I mean, why would someone ever do that..? 
Since then I've never trusted a man that buys goats' milk. 
Skimmed. Goats. Milk. Ho! 

And, he might go on.. 
Well, actually,  
I was quite moved watching the police smash his door in with their uniform legs, 
And throw tear gas grenades nice and tidy in his hallway smaller than mine. 
It makes me feel protected, and powered yes? 
At long last getting value for my Council Tax? Agreed. 
I showed them my Neighbourhood Watch sticker on my front window sill. 
I display a Baby On Board sticker there every day too.
It's good for this country they said.