Hard to know where to feel now with a foodmiles
nationalism with a baked-in-Britain arc
described by a lorry, with a farm-to-fork fuck-you
to those who can’t. Not sorry, all smiles.
I’m baked, but am I in Britain? Nark
right off, stretch our your supply chain – who
links to who – whose links mediate my love
for you this morning as the train gathers pace
but not extinguished and not tainted
by relative distance. Snail trails across
continents, a luminous & beautiful info-
-graphic in green and blue, non-core functions
in different pots. There’s what’s in your
fridge or what’s in your heart, just a tap away,
just a tap away, open source & pour: don’t cook:
just, just:
Sorry about the call last night love
I was just checking your acidity levels, face
up to it, sorry not sorry, slip yourself a sedative
and get back to it. Set the table for two.
Take what you want, pay as you feel,
Take what you want and pay for it,
the cheapest price isn’t always the best deal.
Working hard on a relative rhyme but not
to avail, it reketh nought, recapitulation
rifts the plane of a Devon Hedge cut
through red clay in the gloaming. Might
I wind down this way without end? Night
trips to day to night, didn’t bring a light,
held in unearthly earth and a final end
in a map misread & the wrong campsite.
Reservoirs link up the valley in a chain
of latency, reserves held & released to spend
the sluice down concrete chutes shut
and opened, opened and shut, life
adjacent to its sustaining. I would fain,
for just one drop, drink the negative lake
in the gathering dusk, an image of itself
in the roomy dark …
But supply demands slake
of slack demand. O supple subtle saucy
resource how do we salsa where do we get
our: raw meat on my hands: but where to cut?