Today they’re saying that fruit and veg will fall short.
What’s next; post-Covidian scurvy? As the ship sinks
In the harbour all strapped aboard may be flogged,
As we pathetically slide away from health and nutrition
Into the apocalyptic comforts of tobacco and sugar
As what was left of our veins become clogged.
Take freedom away, and then try the same thing with apples.
Forget then the teacher and fatten resolve with more chips,
Which fall from the block to cauterise sailors’ shoulders,
As if the imposition of splinters induce further Winters
When the lost dream of Spring duly slips. The gathering cold
Has been bold and has started to tell a strange story.
One in which futures start to invoke barren pasts.
In which those deprived of what’s fresh, either through
Supply or demand start to suffer, and Soylent Green’s
Great synthetic calls for Chuck Heston’s replacement
As any one of us is re-cast. It is all starting to become
Biblical with a Nostradamic new Gospel. It feels designed
And delivered; a judgement perhaps from far stars,
Beyond our ken. Soon even our yen will lose purchase
And our need for renewal in the positive sense will be marred.
Something is, or so it would seem, starving us. The Third World
Almost smiles as it suffers, as those in the First start to stumble
As the fumes from the road leave the cars to infiltrate
Every home; if we can’t get our five-a-day greenhouse gasses
Will rise from the compost of saturated fats to enclose
Our previous sweetness of breath, not to mention complexion,
As spots thorn and joints stiffen, each a human equivalent
Of the rose. Which we may as well eat as its plump
And natural allure appeals to us. If we can’t get our grapefruit,
Our asparagus, our broad bean; will we devolve, into some
Form of below deck mottled creature? Cast down before our time
Like King Richard as we bitterly ape his dark schemes.
Fruiyt and veg have been stalled. How long can you live on
An unfarmed McDonalds? There is a new Wendy’s in Uxbridge,
And a Fish n’Chip shop on my road. There is Londis chipolatas
And cheese. Kitkats and Twix. Dirty dairy. There is the brief pump
Of pleasure and then the crisis that meet Motherlode. Meantime,
I check my own teeth, strong untll now. The sea’s starting.
I stand at the lookout. But once the sail is snagged does the journey
Become something that the dead are still owed? I go to bed usually
Dreaming of purpose, or women. Tonight, its tomatoes.
Now that sounds absurd. Life’s new code.
David Erdos 25/2/23
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Food for thought festers
Comment by Phillip Sheahan on 26 February, 2023 at 8:56 pmOur diet craves sanity
Buffet of the vanities
Spot on. Hit the turnip on the head.
Comment by T on 27 February, 2023 at 9:16 pm