Tiered cakes of rock, black chickens in the dining room
We slice open our hard brown bread to
Find a loaf of air tucked inside an egg.
Zoom in on mouths. There’s a mother to curate every quiver of lip.
I curl up inside them all like a clay child.
The curious noises of our teeth become trains, clickety clack.
A finger slipped along a screen
brings us to a curious place, a
A name that Wodehouse might have written.
Do they only teach children of a certain hue?
Or are all welcomed in a wide jellyfish hug
And led to brighter primary colours?
La parole nous a été donnée pour déguiser notre pensée
Speech was given us to (____) our thoughts.
I talk a lot, except in French lessons.
Our shade, as children, informs the stories we weave.
Every dog is a superdog, each case of nits is supernits.
We draw the letter ‘E’ like a fine-toothed comb.
Cheese slices pressed between hard brown bread
We slice open our dry-chaff schooling
To find a sheaf of wheat, waving at the sky.
Today's poem is based on suggestions from three people:
- @johnnypurple: "cheese? mothers?"
- @kirsty_I: "Supernits and Superdogs" (Supernits are actually a thing)
- @suz_la: "Hugh school french class." *pause* Next tweet: "High school even." (I prefer Hugh School. It's where we all go to learn to say "Pip pip!" convincingly.)
Also, I was watching Jan Svankmajer's film Faust last night, so there's a lot of odd images clacking about in my head. The picture at the top is a screen grab from that film - I wonder if that is a real place?