Sunday, 1 February 2009
Cups of tea, console consistently.
Even better big stewed steaming mugs
that prods and pokes life into prone forms.
Ritual morning moans of who to make,
who to brave touched toe to cold floor first,
ends wife winning whines that too tired.
Curses cursed and coverings cast aside
with grudging grind of teeth our noble
hero of the hour heaves up bravely.
Fingers fidget around for glasses
so the day dances to blinking eyes.
as floor flailed for cleanest cast-offs.
Stairs stumbled down to cold kitchen hell
but radio homage to Homer
restores cheer as kettle’s cheeky call
allows algebraic alchemy.
Mugs in handsome hand our hero walks
with proud princely poise bearing towers
of sumptuous life licking liquor
to rumbling roars of room sized snores.
‘What wrong with baby, will she live,’ pleaded Ma. The Doctor, in a cold professional manner said, ‘She has intestinal infantilism.’ Pa stood up for us. ‘Can’t you do anything she’s slipping away?’ ‘We can try an appeal for bananas.’ With the war on, Ma knew she was beat.
Nothing says loving like something from the oven
I can remember when I would
turn heads. When it mattered what you
offered. I know you can’t believe
when you look at the splattered top
and burnt black oven but once my skin
glistened. Women who wish my brand,
first wanted style and the white that hid
being a package cook. My oven
from the first day had no Coq au Vin,
beef stew or fruit pies to invite
watered mouths open for physical pleasuring.
Instead, children survived on fridge
food warmed in my pristine belly;
for the women’s idea of a
special night in was a meat slab
mallet murdered so dead twice
and then eyes right as it ripples.
Who now cares that I stood for the
posture of work shy gals. Yet my
owner kept me sparkling not that
this was an effort. And with the time
she saved, I blush to say anything
about who called when her husband
was out innocent. I should have ended
my time in that house as I wasn’t
going to be worn out except
her husband came back to find that
a spit roast doesn’t always require
an oven. Well that was me ripped out
and sold on to student drudgery.
Early risers burnt my surface,
late owls obscured my oven function
with a room heater for heated late night
conversations. As you would guess, no sleep
is bad. And as scrubbing was what
they did on a Friday, I was
soon down to two top flames and an
oven door that you kicked to click shut.
, I mean me who was voted oven of
the year in eighty. Now the scrap yard
van calls to take me to my death.
A white goddess replaces my space
as fate fumbles to see what I
become: car, plane, saucepan. But my
secret hope recasts me as top
stove for celebrity Jamie Oliver
so food at last made not warmed.
And I kitchen queen to chief king.
.....‘I know how you could kill Jim and get away with it,’ Shelia said downing her fifth shot.
.....‘How?, ’ slurred Nancy well on her way to the floor.’
..... ‘Poison him, and set the heating to be hot. They won’t know the time of death.’
.....‘Sounds…,’ but then Shelia slide silent.
He sits and has his tea,
a nice salad,
seeing if he can taste the difference.
His wife of thirty years
hangs from the ceiling with
a rope made from his best tie,
brought for his birthday.
Her swaying in the breeze makes
a creaking nose which comforts him
as he sips a freshly brewed cup of tea.
Her face is white rather
No dancing feet or
tongue bursting for air.
Moving away from the table,
he wonders if today
will be the day
Before starting the week, he liked to know if fortune smiled. To do this, a portion of his day’s favourite meal was stored in a blue porcelain bowl; each with a favourite lover’s face. On Sunday, seven bowls were finger licked and judgement made by how many lovers still tasted