Teatime With A Monster Called Myself
A teaspoon screeches along a china plate,
It scrapes and spits the varnished seal along its edges,
Like a chainsaw chewing plaster.
A bag is ripped and from within
Its armoured belly a little flag emerges,
Whistling in the wind,
Providing the royal fanfare for the
Precious uterus and within it smells and steam;
Leaves just waiting to be brought to life.
Into the drenching darkness
Of the burning bite.
The little bag’s pores open wide, and
Its dyeing life-blood is released
Into the pristine purity
Of this liquid’s might.
And around, and around
That little silver spoon goes,
Travelling in the currents
Of the rich, dark sea.