Paul Tanner

the logic of my class

the queue is too long.
there’s only one person serving.
who do you complain to?
while some supermarket shareholder
oils up a prepubescent rent boy
in a sunny tax haven,
the money he saves
enough to pay
for 10 more workers,
who do you complain to?
the rent boy braces himself
as the shareholder’s baby mushroom
pops in

as you have a go at
the only person serving
for being
the only person serving

and the queue gets longer
and nothing changes
but the width of the rent boy’s colon,
nothing changes
but the hatred
the only person serving
has for you:
swelling like the shareholder’s baby mushroom,
swollen like your hate
for the only person serving.

the blessed sickness

have her touch you.
have the female customer
shove you
because you can’t give her a refund.
have her shove you and declare
my name is Joanne Maddox
and I’m a victim of the male patriarchy!
have a phone.
have Facebook.
have your Facebook app hear her
say her own name
and then recommend her to you
as a potential friend.
stupidly click on her profile,
out of a curiosity most morbid
and marvel at her feckless newsfeed:
see it full of pro-working-class declarations,
about how she hates the capitalist hierarchy,
about how she’d never use big business
to hurt the little people
oh no, not her
that’s just what evil men do
to women, isn’t it?
and then puke,
puke on her hypocrisy
and wipe the green gut lining
from your chin
and concede:
you’re actually glad you met her:

now you can call in sick

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