I stand under the shine of plastic stars
the tars of dead trillions are turned
back into themselves, ersatz-green
and stillborn in disinfected air.
There, a girl frolics ruddy and spirited
through the woody images of festivity
her eyes more beautiful than the baubles
that hang their reflection.
Spent radio-prayers of white Christmases
materialise as toxic spray-on snow
summoned by the automated dance
and the reverberated chant of cocahohohola!
This feast fleshed with family and friends
of joy and peace and goodwill to all
is wrapped up and counterfeit sold
back to discount discontent.
By Dion Dobrzynski for The Bubble’s Creative Competition on the theme of ‘Christmas’.