Sad Lawns, Manicured To Hell

They treat their lawns
As they trim their lives
Bludgeoned flat and bloodless
Manicured to hell
Not the merest misplaced blade
To disturb suburban myths
Of herbaceous borders heaving
With hurdy-gurdy shrubs
In a sensual overdose

Oh wait though, here comes Barbie
With belaquered haggard nails
And clippers, knackered, dragging
Unappealing pales
Though she still throws up
Those sunflower smiles
As bright as forged Van Goghs
And cheery 'hello's over creosote pots
Unable to hide the stench
From black tar-filled cavities

And then in a
New season's violence
A spring cleaner's
Vicious revenge
They lay the new turf
Hacking here, a-tacking there
Upholding the proud lie
That flowers are always in bloom
In this enchanted piece of doom

Still the garden gnomes are fretful, fed up
Fishing up only toxic needles
And bloated goldfish
From golden pond's secret sludge

Luckily they have discovered
Bottled tranquillity
Which if applied daily
Like industrial strength weed killer
Is guaranteed to go directly
To the root of the problem
And nip all misplaced emotions
In the bud

No need to feel bad
No more, as the bugs
Crawl gasping
Past writhing butterflies
Choking on organic fertiliser
(The responsible choice)
Which cleverly keeps alive
Only what they can bear to see
While drugged-up fluorescent
Shoots flash by
Screaming from their pods
Hurtling with preternatural speed
Towards the lying light

But of an evening
They stare, hollow
This perfect couple
At the half-real fire
In their ideal home
Battering their minds
Like demented moths
Against hidden pains
While the drains gurgle
And the chimney
Wheezes and whistles
At old jokes
And the night draws in




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