Friday, 8 May 2009

Down With Bread

I am reunited with my glorious Snout and I have realised that I do not like bagels. I wish that we did not have breads of any kind, just extra helpings of fillings served in jam jars or spread out over the bodies of the luscious young. Bread is filler, ballast, stodge. I wish we could be free from it. In heaven there are no baps.

My Mum once went into a bakery that sold Tiger Baps and asked for a Leopard Bun.

It’s raining today and I don’t want to get up. I am become bed. I want to be behind a boiler, the kind that wears a red-and-white Puffa jacket, where there is always a dead wasp and the smell of dry heat and hot dust. It is a day for hiding, for nesting, for making dens. It is cold as well. I am wearing my fur coat inside out, the pelt against my skin. This summer I will make a dress from bumblebee skins, and I will be the toast of high society.


  1. I have wet feet.
    My salad froze in the fridge.
    My teeth are itchy.
    I want to come round and play.
    See you tonight x

  2. I chained the chitin of wasp abdomens to beetle carapaces and presented it to my love who shrieked bloody murder. I wish I had thought of bumblebee dresses first. With you, my friend, originality is not dead.

  3. It is not dead. It is in a shoebox under my bed with a million flayed bees.

  4. ...perfectly expressed, this wanting to be filled with fillings and not the fluff of bread...

  5. PoetMan: In contrast, my Dad always says that life is like a shit sandwich - the more bread you have, the less shit you eat.