this manic platitude constrains my
soul with whispered screams
and dreams of scenes of consternation
and little girls emulating their mothers,
writing christmas cards to vague
acquaintances and visiting quaint
bric-a-brac shops for burlap sacks
adorned with flowers and crosses,
filled with flip-flops, Tupperware and potpourri,
eating panini bread and drinking a latte
they fashion themselves
after the cherry blossom flattened

into the tread of 4×4 tyres
mounting arm chair revolts against
men with long hair and women
who sit with their legs open
long enough for fresh air
to invigorate their libido
to the overture of pussycat dolls
before they celebrate the return
of good luck trolls and throw
parties in the name of green leaf
postcodes, PG Tips and saggy tits,
eating brunch bars and driving
to-the-shop-and-back cars
in starchy bras, nipples red raw
and big like the radius of
an ovaltine mug, talking about how
if it wasn’t for their children they
wouldn’t have to associate with
those types of people
whom you never find beneath a
church steeple, at the staff social
or on the Antiques Road Show
because it’s on after Songs of Praise
where saggy tits sing songs
lambasting thongs and sitting
in woollen throngs like
sheep shepherded by the hand
of Sunday night television
and the revelation of irrelevance
eating at the fabric of
Marks and Sparks knickers
kicking the shins of
Sunday dinners and forcing
farcical people to face up to
the hate of their progeny
the pain of mediocrity
and the ambiguity of their
entire lives, where survival
entitles them to game shows
and Australian soap operas,
washing brains in sacred
preparation for nothing
because everything they had
is gone and wasted
like days spent in pain
with menstruation and
each fixation with dietary
fads like blueberries
cranberries and cherries
chewed over more than
the contributions they could
have made to the world
if being pathetic wasn’t
such an appealing feeling
to be hooked on
while hymns filled the air
and patriarchy filled their throats