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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s