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Ethereal jogger bottoms.
The crisps I fancied claimed to use real ingredients,
from which I took an enormous amount of comfort.
For no longer would the non-existent sort
be free to have its wicked way with the marketplace.
I paused a moment to delight in the possibilities,
the potential of this astounding revelation.
All those things which had never before existed
would now be available to me.
They’d all be mine [at this point, I laughed like a maniac].
All those things I’d been hypnotised
into thinking were actually real
were nothing more than a voodoo daydream.
I came out in a sort of miasmic flush,
and rested a while next to the spurious Doritos.
A woman looked at me strangely.
I privately pitied her [and that imaginary trolley too].
But what could I do?
She didn’t know any better, did she?
For it was I who had been granted the revelation,
not her, in those large and ethereal jogger bottoms.
Made from unreal fabrics.
I eventually paid and marched home singing,
unburdened by the usual pseudo-heavy load.
No hologram baked beans for me,
no scotch mist scotch eggs,
no fake shake and bakes.
Just them there real crisps.
The bags caught in the breeze
and knocked against my phantom knees.
As I continued walking, I began to doubt my house.
What had they built it with?
Hocus pocus bricks?
See, up till then I hadn’t paused
to consider the complications to myself.
Born out of unreal genes,
my basic basis bunkum?
Not a real ingredient in me,
fictitious made-up pavement walker.
I do recommend the chilli ones, mind.
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