Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2011

Escapist

by Andrew Breckenridge


 
Is it because its like the Wicker Man,
pagan rituals, grisly sacrifice,
frogs’ bollocks by the demi-john,
and weave a ribbon round the maypole thrice?
 
Do urbanites decant themselves from ferries
to gag upon the milk of paradise,
a knowing come on nod from feral eyes,
the rational in them anaesthetised?
 
Though two rural adolescents fantasise
a riot of their own. Main street, small town,
with urban conflagration. Antagonised
ranking against the front, cops, bricks raining down.
 
That longing to gulp down ravenously.

Added: 20.04.2011

Judges' comments on this poem

08.05.2011

Good use of half-rhyme. Good imagery and contrast. Lost me on the final line?

13.05.2011

A very interesting poem.

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