Thursday, 2 February 2012

Dessert Island

¿Donde está La Isla Dulce?

Pastry limpets predict the future from silvery concave faces,
every spoon a remembrance in flour and fat.
Scratched cutlery sculpting tomorrow from yesterday’s waste:
predictions of mild disillusionment, disgust,

diarrhoea. Covertly, I return to the sticky back counter.
Rummage in the trough. Fat digits wriggle like eager
piglets between cool metal shafts but every face is scarred,

pasted. Bamboo-like, in a haze
of Zen do I bend; acquiesce to the inevitability of


Followed back to our table by the promise of pudding.
Metal garden chair squeaks on sticky linoleum as I sit.
Complicit in the shabby shite façade, the chipped
bowl’s just one letter away from the brown

brick road to the entrails city. As Lolita sashays into grime
we swap fish faces. Gawp at an ocean of lukewarm jaundice.
Thinking that the crumble was wasted on spoornamentation,
That only custard

remains. But you, courageous explorer, will not
settle for this explanation. Cook’s inquisitive, sea-faring spirit
thrusts a stained stainless scoop into the depths, on a mission to
crumb. How you do move me, Earth Shaker, when you raise
La Isla Dulce from an ocean of disappointment.

fortes fortuna adiuva



Ste said...

Not sure I should have read this straight after breakfast! 'Brown Brick Road to Entrails City?' Ewwww!

Love the whole Cook the explorer thing - very clever twist on the whole theme.

Great post Vicky and if those poetry competitions need an actual phallus, rather than a non existent one, you know where to send them ;)

Ashley R Lister said...

That picture reminds of one of the reasons why I quit being vegetarian.

As Ste says - a great post.


vicky ellis said...

Ash - I've a feeling a joke just flew over my head...