Self-Saucing Poem

My poem separates...

 

Fluffy spongy words are

sitting up top.

The dark sticky syrup of meaning

is lurking underneath.

 

 

You say you like the sound of it.

You swallow it whole.

You find it remarkably

palatable.

 

 

At four in the morning

you wake, clutching your tummy.

Your mind is reeling

and your dreams taste funny.

 

You'd said you were so hungry

that you could eat a horse

or even a half-baked pantoum.

So you've really no recourse

to complain with such force

or threaten me with a harpoon.

 

 

You've had your cake and eaten it.

You've had the pudding and the proof.

Don't shoot the chef

if you can't stomach the truth.

 

 

 

B.R. 01/10/2014