Thursday, 16 August 2012

No picnic by Michael Harris Conroy

we go for a walk in the park
and it’s no walk in the park.

we take oysters and fine wines
into enchanted woods
but even that’s no fucking picnic.

if music be the food of love, then honey,
someone’s switched the tapes
and industrial noises serenade us
as we feast on sour grapes.

“you should get a job with the u.n.
you’re so good at giving ultimata”.
"yeah, well you should be a weatherman,
you’re choc-full of bullshit data’’.

just when we think we’ve cleared the air
someone revs up a hidden tank
and a love-hate shell explodes and spits 
a ton of sand where my heart just sank.

just when we think the sun is rising
a nuclear reactor cracks and leaks
and shadows mug us,
like slick ninja,
and ‘i don’t care’
and you won’t speak.

it doesn’t matter how we mix
the mixture or how well we bake,
we could dust with this thing
with shit or sugar
– it’ll never be a piece of cake.

This poem, by Michael Harris Conroy is from his forthcoming collection 'Easy Rhymes a.k.a' and can be found on 'Royal Shit' by Superqueens

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