This is the slogan (if that’s the correct word) for this year’s Brighton Festival, chosen by the poet Kate Tempest. Here’s my poem on the subject, using all the odds and sods imagery on the cover of the brochure as a prompt.
squeeze the life from
discarded apple cores,
and how easily a sticking plaster
could be mistaken for an engagement ring.
My supper is an open can of beans
lid all jagged, the fault of the tin opener.
Those unlaced tennis shoes are not a pair,
so forget toothbrush diplomacy,
let Cupid shoot arrows at your
brain and with any luck they will deflect
any baseball cap insults.
Avoid prickly old Rose,
who longs to hang you out to dry
with her pound shop clothes pegs
that haven’t been
tested in storm conditions.
Beware of loose change
because 20p will never be enough
for a humble cup of tea,
and poetry won’t earn you anything.
Quick–the loo roll will run out soon,
let’s head for the library,
oh shit–my smartphone’s on crutches.