In this moment, I am an omelette.
Her words tuck me in like the perfectly cooked egg folding over a goat cheese and spinach centre. There is time here. Time to settle. Time to sink your feet in the mud. Slow and gooey, pouring up the sides of your shoes like the first bite of a lava cake.
The cold heart has been chilled in the cooler – the walk-in freezer – “Christopher Walken”, she giggled and taped his picture to the door.
Serving this dessert, plated perfectly – the spoon cracks the hard chocolate shell and a caramel cream filling pours out, or is it cherry or pistachio mousse.
I think this is my new favourite poem – her placement, her attention, her care. The cadence, the sequence, it is life – it is everything at once.
I heard on the radio that Jeff Besos thought his dick looked small in his spacesuit while he was launched into his shiny cock-rocket into space.
Wow! He wouldn’t understand this poem. He has all the things and yet he would never see a starfish smile. He would never recognize that the growth pattern of the buttercup fields mirrors the constellations in the sky. With all his fame and fortune the only thing on his mind is his package – a piece of junk. No filter dewey enough to quell his ego.
where rivers are born 