White man in Hammersmith Palais
is reduced to muzak these days,
absent-mindedly hummed to
in aisle three,
whilst checking out
the buy one get one free.

Looking through Gary Gilmore's eyes
hovers round and over
cheap junk-food pies,
whilst stressed mothers
who were one-time flirty little punks,
agonize over frozen pasta,
or special offer meaty-chunks.

The day the world turned day-glo
is all lost in the supermarket,
as benefit-happy new school leaver
seriously deliberates,
nondescript cheap lager packs
or gut-rot imported wine
stacked in sticky plastic crates.

Staring at the rude boys
is taken out of context,
as children drag their mothers
through the must-have cuddly toys,
and all the anthems that we ever danced to,
have become so sanitised,
just so much corporate background noise

The supermarket has broken me,
turned me into
romanticised reminiscence,
subjected me to the roller coaster
of cheap clothing, own-brand cola,
subliminal advertising heaven,
where freedom of choice
is just another product now,
vacuum-packed all bland and safe,
forgotten on the bottom row,
somewhere in aisle seven.