My mind will settle not on literature
Like stories, novels, chick lit, shades of grey.
Instead, I’m forced to books that will ensure
No critic will despise my chosen way
Unconscious phantasy exists in all, Freud said
By radios, I’ve now become obsessed
I tinker with their chargers from my bed
Not for those vibrators, they’re so sad.
Hence, instead of grieving I caress,
Sadly wish I’d got him better radio sets
I’ve made a little shrine upon his desk
Radio, long candles , woollen vests
His ashes dwell inside a hessian bag
I cannot climb Sca Fell with him to drag!
I’d throw him in the sea but he’d get mad
I’ll put him in a plant pot here instead
I came home from the funeral weeping blood
It got inside the hoover while I blogged
I think I might well bury him with dad.
I’ll keep him till I die then he’ll feel glad