I still live

for Music, milk and Mars Bars,

never finding a replacement for them all,

the speed of the thirty three

and a third, always fulfilling

and fuelling the memory of fifty

pence in my pocket, a morning token

in which the early Walkman knock off

would play me the music of choice

on the way to school, passing by

the odd discarded milk bottle, a victim

of thirst and now drained

and allowed to stand erect, proud,

devoid of culture and parading the remains

slowly resisting the urge to gather

at the bottom of the imperfect goblet,

I raise a smile, knowing the devil of the deed

and chug down my own milky residue,

sterilised madness

and with the breakfast of fast food hell, my own Mars

Bar, silky taste, washed down with

the songs of the day.

 

Ian D. Hall 2017