While others are gawping, upwards,
like lobotomized meer-kats,
and oohing, and aahing
at colourful chemical reactions
in the sky, I go down to my kitchen
to put bangers under the grill.


Sitting on the cold stone floor,
I warm myself as I watch
flesh-pink sausages,
sun-bathers, repellently obese,
sweat grease and brown and burn
until they explode,
whistling, pissing fat.


No artifice from their orifice,
but spitting flashes of life:
incandescent shooting stars,
evanescent stirring shots
of celebration, cheaper
than fireworks, and edible.


Copyright © 2014. Terry J. Bradford


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