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.


Plunge, plunge,

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.

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