This is a first. I am about to explain a poem. Why is this a first? Because a long lesson that I have learnt as a poet, is that sometimes people need a gentle prod, not literally, but mentally, in the right direction. I have spent many years writing poetry and not explaining why I wrote them and what the point is and I feel that although simplicity and economy can often be a poets greatest gift, this shouldn’t leave the reader scratching their head.
So, this is a first and not last I hope.
Soul Sale is a fresh new one that I wrote as I was unhappy with the way that my hands would always gravitate to the Argos catalogue if I needed anything. Anything at all. Things would spark in my head often “I wonder if that’s in the Argos Catalogue” almost religously. This feeling has worked its way in to a poem, again comparing the faith that one has in Argos to a religous faith and playing with images of demons and that sort of thing.
I’ve sold my soul to Argos,
it’s not the way to go.
I’m a slave to their book of dreams,
as I flick through their pages of promises.
Searching for the answer to life.
And it’s not good.
I read it at night,
I can recite
Every chapter from the contents page,
as my heart is in a catalogued cage and
the keys are held by the warehouse demon
that resides in every single store,
the guardian between excess and reason,
as you walk through their blue and red doors.
They receive their power from the Earth’s core
as their power of attraction is so huge it entraps
souls in their End of Catalogue Sale.
If you stand still as you enter,
you can hear the wails
of
the
souls
Trapped behind the counter of judgement,
at the end of the conveyer belt of buyers regret.
They say Satan is the
most beautiful being
and walks this mortal earth,
but what if he needs a job?
Somewhere to spread his curse.
Where better to get you and me,
to sell what we’re exactly worth
as we write seven little numbers down
it’s a cheque,
an access code,
a router,
a node,
to our squishy buying cortex,
that bit of the brain that acts
like a powerful impulse vortex
of
‘things you might need’ and
‘that could possibly be a bit useful’.
So, now I attend a retail
Confessional, determined to make
an impression on
my wilting, limpid, bank account.
But no amount of therapy and all this
soul searching dream catching dross,
will save me from myself,
as I have sold my soul, to Argos.
