Superfoods

Pomegranates,
And spinach,
And watercress,
Are designated "superfoods",
Along with goji fruit,
And almonds,
And king-size pizza,
And chocolate,
And vodka,
And ice-cream,
And french fries,
And Indian,
And Chinese.

So who says healthy eating can't be fun?

Sun And Air

I've fallen deeply in love with the girl,
Hiding in the electronic check-out number four.

She never sounds sad or angry.
Her perfect, modulated tones,
Oh, how I wish to take her home.

There she hides beneath the screen,
"Please place the item in the bag..",
So I respectfully place my vegan mayonnaise,
In the bag.

In the past,
Leaning close to her bar-code reader,
I've whispered,
"Would you like to go out
for a drink with me sometime?",
She's never replied.

How improbably, exceptionally shy!
Imagine hiding in your check-out bunker,
All day long,
All day long!
Announcing prices, instructions..

Do you have your lunch-break in there?
I wonder,
Do you only open your hatch for sun and air?,
Or only when the security guard,
Taps your glass screen:
" Hey, it's all clear now,
They've all gone,
You can come out now.
It's safe, there's no-one around."?

I always wave at her bar-code reader,
But no hand has ever appeared to wave back.
But,
Sometimes, she bleeps.
You know,
I'm sure that that's her way of confiding in me,
That she knows I'm there,
And she knows I care.

I don't know what she looks like.
And you know,
It doesn't much matter to me,
For my love for the invisible check-out girl,
Is so beyond the mundane, physical.
I never thought I'd say that,
And mean it!

When I gently stroke her buttons,
She responds with:
"Please enter the code again.",
So I tenderly press her buttons again,
And then,
From somewhere behind that touch-screen of hers,
She replies with her classy, cut-glass, restrained,
"Thank you.",
And always followed with her coy, mysterious,
home-counties,
Silence.

And so here I am again,
In this queue,
I always wave other customers past me,
If check-out number four isn't through,
For she has to know -
Has to know,
I will never be unfaithful -
I will never go to another till.

And now,
Look!
There she is,
Free!,
The regular girl,
Who directs us to the available check-outs,
Rolls her eyes at me,
Maybe she's jealous,
Because I'm holding a bunch of flowers.

So here I stand,
In front of till number four,
And I confess to her:
"I worry about you:
Hiding, crouched all day
Beneath your till?
It must do your poor back in!
I wish you would come out from hiding in there,
I could give you a lovely massage..".

I can feel,
All the other customers stares,
Burn,
What is their problem?
I continue:
"I love you,
And I don't care who knows it!"
There's laughter around me now,
But I must press on:
"I'm holding a lovely bunch of flowers for you..",
I wave them in front of her bar-code reader,
And she replies instantly with,
"Thank you for shopping at Tescos.".
"No, thank you,
I love you shy, subterranean check-out girl.
I'll leave the flowers here for you."
I place them by her side,
And begin to take my leave,

..There's a voice..

And a hush descends..

Android Paranoid

This phone is not a smart phone.
It's one of those old-fashioned phones:
It can only text message,
Video message,
Download music and films,
And play games,
And surf and email,
Make global conference calls,
And other pretty basic things..

Oh,
And it's blue tooth enabled,
And wifi capable,
And can remote control your tv,
But this phone is not a smart phone,
So,
I must throw it away immediately!

Not Ships Exactly

We were dodgems that crashed in the night,
And while were seeing stars,
We also span stars.

A Silly Stream Of Consciousness

A silly stream of consciousness,
A steam train of lozenges,
A lounge lizard,
David Attenborough in a jazz club - nice.
Granny bingo militia,
Bono,
God no,
Not Bono.

Bees of Borneo.

A silly stream of consciousness,
Soporific sonata,
Ballet/belly dancer,
Carmen Electra,
Ornithologist.

One big owl.

This poem is a poem,
Poem poem poem poem,
And you have lovely ears,
Especially when you put on your lipstick,
Poem poem poem poem,
I've loved the smell of ladies' lipstick,
Ever since I was a small young man of three.

And before I take my leave,
May I say,
How deeply impressed I am,
With these petit pois peas:
Flavoursome spangles these,
I don't wish to go on about it!

Land ahoy!
Our stream of consciousness journey,
Is at an end,
Beautiful friend,
This is the end,
I love the taste of petit pois peas in the morning.

Can't Speak French

She's a performance poet,
That wants us to know she knows French,
So she's reading her poem in English,
And now she switches into French,
Oh, and now back into English again,
And now back into French,
See.

I think it's about Iraq and Afghanistan.
No.
Maybe it's about two lovers of hers?
Not quite sure,
And,
She's finished,
(I think),
Yes, she's finished,
Definitely,
Because she says "that's it..",
I understood that bit.
An applause smatters,
And she sits back down again.

That's it.