Another Poem About Cake

(i)

A spiced pumpkin latté
in Waterstones café.

Bradford in the rain.

A horrible jazz version
of People Are Strange.

A sudden squall
outside the City Vaults.
Umbrellas turn themselves
inside out
in very British
identity crisises
(or crises
if you please).

On my plate -
understated,
plain and white
as a cocaine snow cloud -
jam and freeze-dried raspberries
abstractly,
matter-of-factly
decorate
a deconstructed brownie
arrangement.
It looks like the aftermath
of a road traffic accident.



(ii)

Meanwhile,
at a secret location in Huddersfield:

A man wearing a suit
made from recycled geography teachers
sips at a pint of sweet sherry
and smokes a side order
of corn cob pipe
till his Marty Feldman eyes bubble.

Then he gathers up his chins
and underthings
to kneel at his shrine to James Mason
(he was from round here tha knows),
whips his mobile phone from his pocket
and deletes some poor bugger
from his list of contacts
before holding a rude effigy
above a tiny flickering flame.

He smiles
and then laughs
as the drip-dripping wax
makes a right mess
of his carpet.



(iii)

Next morning
I wake up in a Premier Inn.

I've forgotten my name.
I look in the mirror
and my face seems strange.

I head downstairs
to the restaurant
and enjoy an unfeasibly
large breakfast.

Not everything has changed.

B.R. 08/10/2016