[La Poete feels he is a pie to be consumed,
or a sex-machine operating in anonymity,
or dead in his coffin.]
Rub a dub dub. Dub a rub rub. Three men.
That ancient tub. Slaughterman, pastryman,
Purveyor of waxen illuminations,
They all conclude with the disposalman,
Whose parlour is papered with liver-pate
And filo, carpeted with trippa and tunge.
Four candles spit and hiss at quarters, melted
From cawl fat, stuck in cornets for candlesticks.
This pie perhaps for eating: a casket
On puff pastry stand - stale coffin,
Cover, discrepancy of a tumid
Sausage ballooning from snug access hole
In a lid that's shone to warm glaze by thighs,
A one-horned croissant on a coffin lid, finger
Wrought handle of flesh, manipulable,
Solemn church candle with the fiery wick,
Handled one by one by an endless column
Of deathscrewing girls spreading round the corner.
Screwed in, in the dark, blinking at the dark
Plush in pitch black, who perceives what he thinks
As he dawdles, back arched by the adjustable
Pad of velvet keeps his electric loins forced up.
For a price, pastry can be carved so client
Can indulge curiosity - fear not
His face: a one way mirror means he can't
See you, that gravyman, cannot sense your
Ecstasy of rut, apart from randy clench
Of muscle deep within your bellyspasm.
Does he sleep in there? Do you think he knows
We're here? Or is he just a stew of giblets
Organs, aslosh within the box, dumplings,
A sauce of curdled thoughts and images?
Brute sensation is all that men need, save
Empathy for the girls, that's what women's
Magazines reveal in sex pages sandwiched
Between cookery tips and gardening.
So why then is he still delaying? Ok,
Sweetie, DIY number 69,
Your turn. What have you brought the screwdriver for?
XXX
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