Friday, 8 January 2010


Flaying will flavour the idle,
And the course of the supplicants cycles;
As the honey and treacle disciples
Provoke haste in the weekly arrivals,
Who provide tastes that are neutral,
Debates that are futile,
And ingredients likely to die from.

The infusion of oils in the ointment
Induce pheromones unusually present,
And are made to wait out in the basement,
Whilst the marinade affects where the taste went;
The windows were blacked out,
The innocence in doubt,
And the excitement confirmed by the scent.

The intoxication stirred in with the mixture,
And the long held belief in the fixture,
Had the desired effect on the texture
Once applied to the tongue lying next to you,
That was flailing around
Its mouth’s hunting ground,
Awaiting the sweet’s interjection.

Time has on its side the ambition
To swallow the world’s erudition,
And regurgitate any omission
That does not satisfy its condition,
And once loaves have all risen
We are left with the vision
Of our supper’s last take on tradition.

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