Something that came out of a 10-minute writing spot last night. Everyone’s entitled to a little rant from time to time.
It’s all food TV these days,
unless it’s sex, with domestic goddesses
who mix them both, homogenise, confuse,
until we’re unsure whether we want
to fuck or scoff.
It starts with farming,
lovely long shots of misty vales,
close-ups of nosey cows sticking tongues
up sticky nostrils. A ‘personality’
slaps a flank, talks about marbling,
and we cut away to a slab in a roasting tin.
I’ve lost heart with fishy tales,
trawlermen dropping fag ends
into boxes of iced creatures from another planet.
Have you noticed, they’re mostly head?
But that’s not the bits you cook.
A chef fillets, fingers blue
with sticking plaster
where the blade slipped.
Field rows of carrots are trenched,
climb the conveyor, then drop, graded,
into boxes on the backs of tractors,
washed, bug-scoured, sorted,
packed and shrink-wrapped
before the earth’s settled in the holes.
What’s it all for? Audience, that’s us,
kitchen voyeurs, delivered fresh, daily,
to the advertisers’ doorsteps.