I carried her home-made tent back to the squat after the rave.
It was made of birch and an hour before was used to shelter pretty young girls and UV paints. It was heavy. We must have looked like peasants out of some Van Gough.
Although her pink tu tu might have ruined his composition.

In the centre of the garden stood a quince tree surrounded by row after row of organised vegetables. Next door had concrete, a car and judgemental Sunday-morning faces.
A large picture of a television was on a box in the corner where a real one would be. The caption read "a prison for your mind". The TV license people left them alone.

Warm tea was brought from another house. No gas. No milk either – strictly vegan.

The other anarchists held a committee meeting without her that week.
Anarcho-communism is all about committee meetings nowadays:

They started minutes with the loan; of a ladder the week before
The welsh one said "he could have it"; which caused an uproar,
What part of “Collective”, lets you, lend your stuff out, anymore?

But that panic over they moved onto other business:

"The quince tree. It’s up for the chop
Its vicious shade destroys our potato crop"

"It isn't even from Britain” another stood to say
"Dangerous and foreign, the fruit tree has outstayed its stay".

In her absence the motion past and so was the tree.

And I caught a glimpse of the slow tumbling death of an ideal.

It might have been the acid or the slice of cold quince crumble but I felt sick. They had built a monument to self-centred insular prideful hypocrisy and called it "home".

After I left I had a big fuck-off six-quid burger
from a franchise
and for the first time ever I felt better having had one.

A true story. Written for a themed poetry night on housing . I sincerely request constructive criticism.

Thanks to etouffee for pointing out that the last line (poison for my medicine overdose) was unnecessary and a bit off-topic.

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