'A Half Mashed Spud' by Penny Pepper
A memory of '86
Old new London moans,
- in my kitchen there's a saucepan
- boils up an argument
as potatoes jeer and jiggle
to the sound of Ian Dury
and assorted punk on-goers.
I'm looking at tomorrow
and thinking of more sex.
Young, twitchy, greedy.
Stillettoes pinch my toes;
- not for walking much,
- they're worth it for the shock
on the social worker visits
and for the scolding sour grannies
who skulk my Leyton streets
where I'm quite the freaky presence.
I broke out from my holding pen
marked et al for flid, spaz, crip;
- not merely seen and hardly heard
- out bold with red hair sharpened,
Mini skirt ruched to punky thighs
exposing meanest fishnets
as I slouch roads in my chair.
Still, the potatoes will not soften
- and we're gloomy as we starve,
- me and boyfriend Alan
dreaming of mash and mothers
in old institutions of home.
Alan strokes my tight-bright skirt.
Tells me I'm plastic fantastic
- but we can't cook two potatoes
- and nothing else matters
but the thought of buttered mash
sliding salty smooth pleasure,
oozing an utterence of spuddy cream
down our naughty churlish throats.
Later Ann would tell us.
You have to chop them first
- not throw them in like knobbled bricks
- to be baffled in an exercise
- of unschooled endurance.
Aeons moved, light fell, light rose.
It came to pass there was a mountain.
A mash everest, I pulped myself
badly with a broken fork.
Stiff little fingers find their methods always,
and later, Al unpeeled me
- lust cooked us to a carefree brew
- alert to our baby wants and dreams.
Laughter, like we believe it's worth it,
at the half mashed spud
on my red ripped tartan skirt.
© Penny Pepper 2013
Please do not use without the poet’s permission.
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