IKEA is hell; or rather,

Hell must be very like IKEA.

 

It goes on, and on, forever,

All the signage is demonic, unintelligible

Written in Enochian or runes

Like the Lord’s Prayer said backwards.

 

They even sell black candles; to make things worse

The demons are all Swedish

With staring eyes like Moonies or Branch Davidians

And the torments include meatballs

And flatpacks no one can ever put together

With three bits missing, and one left over.

 

You must try in vain for all eternity

To telephone the actual shop, ending up in limbo instead,

In a call centre for ever and ever amen

Your soul is important to us;

Please continue to hold

 

Yes, Hell must be very like IKEA: a maze

Of circles inside circles where you’re likely

To meet Dante and Virgil

Sitting side by side, on matching sofas

Called “Inferno”

With a line through the “o”

 

They put the angst in “angstrom”,

Eternal Swedish “we know best” smugness

Stools with three legs in primary colours

And probably designed by Wallender on a bad day

 

Those little cubicles you trundle past

Tricked out to look just like your ideal room

They make you view their idea of perfection

Like onlookers in Bedlam

 

Lulled by ambient, satanic music,

A Beatles’ tune played in reverse,

The lost souls shuffle endlessly on

Always tormented by the yawning gap

Between confected perfection

Of scatter cushions and concealed lighting

And the raw reality of the rainy car-park.

 

Come, friendly bombs, fall on IKEA

They really do have no idea.