The precise precision of plastic
Furnished flower-pots made me queasy.
Obnoxious day-glow orange refulgence,
Undercooked mince, port-wine indulgence.
I urinate amidst skunk odor, pale gnomes
Flaking paint. Alcoholic allusion lisp.
A buddha reduced to a whore.
Remains of a banal astucious display,
Abscess on the way, blue-jay decorated wings,
Flowering wheelie-bins & nothing.
Judgmental? … Fuck it!
The door swings on in its hinges,
Behind me, concluding Christmas.