We roll a grenade into a family's Christmas sitting room
and dub the resultant massacre 'a pallaver'.
'Santa's not coming this year,' I announce to a theatreful
of baffled pensioners, having rappelled
into a performance of Guys & Dolls
dressed as an astronaut. They cannot hear me
through my helmet
and the din of detonating pipebombs in the foyer.
Above imitation fireplaces, stockings stretch beneath the burden
of fish guts and strange prayers written on bull hide.
We needle those we love dearest,
pressing hot chestnuts into the soft pouches of their eyes.
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