Flowers

The Flowers of the Garage Forecourt

Budding lovers beware
of the Flowers of the Garage Forecourt;
they are not for courting.

Love will not blossom
with the Flowers of the Garage Forecourt,
these blundering bouquets

of cellophaned sadness:
the slip-road roses and tarmacked tulips,
petrol pump peonies

and crushed-dream chrysanthemums.
All those dahlias of desperation.
The I-forgot-you forget-me-nots.

Please know this, would-be customers
of the Flowers of the Garage Forecourt:
romance wilts with a lack of forethought.

The Chelsea Flower Show Massacre

There was death amongst the daffodils
the day Fleur took her secateurs
and ran amok through the flock
of haughty culturalists in the Chelsea gardens
without so much as a beg your pardon.

Roses were red, violets were too,
ears were sheared, nosegays chopped,
toes trimmed and green fingers lopped,
as Fleur took the lawn into her own hands
and mowed them all down.

Even the failure of Lady Pru’s azalea bed
became overshadowed by the trail of dead
and the herbaceous borders
filled up with her slaughters.

There was carnage in the carnations,
annihilation amidst the anemones,
hysteria in the wisteria,
nastiness in the nasturtiums.

Nobody could remember
a flower show bloodier.

Someone had even been nipped
in the buddleia.

The Flowers of the Garage Forecourts

Lovers beware of flowers
which fester in garage forecourts;
they are not for courting.

For what lover wants pound shop peonies,
dahlias of desperation, morose roses of regret,
chrysanthemums of crushed dreams,
tumorous tulips, carnations of tarnation,
and you-forgot-me forget-me-knots?

These cellophaned bunches of sadness,
blundered bundles of floral unthoughtfulness,
do not make feelings blossom, love bloom,
the heart burst, but lead merely to the
wilting of romance.

Frankly, you’re better off getting
a tube of Sour Cream and Chive Pringles
and a motoring atlas.