Big Boob Babes in Bognor
(A poem based on 'A Supermarket in California' by Allen Ginsberg)
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Dean Gaffney, for I walked along, undone, through the pedestrian zone, looking up at a lunatic moon.
Worn thin by fatigue, and driven on by my quest for out of the ordinary crisps, I went into the supermarket, dreaming of Robbie Jackson.
What tortilla wraps and Sesame Snaps! Frazzles and vajazzles! The whole cast of Hollyoaks shopping at night! Aisles filled with Harry Styles look-alikes! Paul Danan scanning at the checkout!—and you, Spencer from Made in Chelsea, what were you doing by the Asti Spumante?
I saw you, Dean Gaffney, jobless, middle-aged actor, poking the persimmons and eyeing up the girls behind the pizza counter.
I heard you asking questions: Are these Super Noodles free range? Are these processed cheese triangles organic? How much for your women?
We strode down the aisles together, tasting future-proofed yogurt and calling back Wellard, his snout in bags of dog biscuits or his gnashers ripping the limbs from lost kids.
Where are we going, Dean Gaffney? It's early closing on Saturday. Pay no mind to Peter Andre, he's frozen stiff 'neath neatly stacked prawn rings.
Will we walk all night through streets lined with the ghosts of fame? Will we stroll, haunted by unhappy spirits, trying to remind us of their fifteen minutes of celebrity? Who are they? What are they? Were they on The X Factor? Or Big Brother?
Oh, Dean Machine, The 15th Earl of Gaffney, what kind of United Kingdom lay before you when you left Albert Square?
What thoughts I have of you tonight, Dean Gaffney, for I walked along, undone, through the pedestrian zone, looking up at a lunatic moon.
Worn thin by fatigue, and driven on by my quest for out of the ordinary crisps, I went into the supermarket, dreaming of Robbie Jackson.
What tortilla wraps and Sesame Snaps! Frazzles and vajazzles! The whole cast of Hollyoaks shopping at night! Aisles filled with Harry Styles look-alikes! Paul Danan scanning at the checkout!—and you, Spencer from Made in Chelsea, what were you doing by the Asti Spumante?
I saw you, Dean Gaffney, jobless, middle-aged actor, poking the persimmons and eyeing up the girls behind the pizza counter.
I heard you asking questions: Are these Super Noodles free range? Are these processed cheese triangles organic? How much for your women?
We strode down the aisles together, tasting future-proofed yogurt and calling back Wellard, his snout in bags of dog biscuits or his gnashers ripping the limbs from lost kids.
Where are we going, Dean Gaffney? It's early closing on Saturday. Pay no mind to Peter Andre, he's frozen stiff 'neath neatly stacked prawn rings.
Will we walk all night through streets lined with the ghosts of fame? Will we stroll, haunted by unhappy spirits, trying to remind us of their fifteen minutes of celebrity? Who are they? What are they? Were they on The X Factor? Or Big Brother?
Oh, Dean Machine, The 15th Earl of Gaffney, what kind of United Kingdom lay before you when you left Albert Square?
Shipley, 2016
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| Dean Gaffney as Robbie Jackson with his faithful Wellard |
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