Cafe de los reyes

Oh coffee cup

Symbol of wealth, fragility,

Can’t get my kicks, can’t start my work,

Until I’ve sipped you, slurped you, talked dirty to you

Oh wonderful crutch

In my palm oh so much

Once a day when the dawn is yawning

And the desks are filling

I’ll dodge the queues

Trek upstairs to abuse

That frothy little mouth of yours.

You’re a white girl’s wet dream

A bolt of electricity

That mini panic attack shooting through me

As idle hands make their way around the city

They stumble onto you

And wrap around like an octopus

A rite of passage for the working youth

That I’ll fill with sugar to claim that boost

Because I can’t stand the taste

Of this drink that has such a place

Such a presence

In society today.

Dirty ramen

It’s impossible to act like a princess

when you’re eating ramen.

I pull apart these stubborn chopsticks,

and watch the wood splinter,

like lovers scorned they leap apart

and drown in an oil-soaked, soupy bath

where mushrooms bob up and down

like caramel apples and

bamboo shoots cling to beansprouts

for dear life.

My lips are smothered in broth

napkin smudge-ridden, turning from white to brown

I slurp back sinewy noodles

knotted and silky, drenched in stew

and feel the sauce ooze down my chin.

Teeth no doubt stained

face no doubt smudged

mouth no doubt dyed with soy sauce.

Stop objectifying chicken tikka.


for the stomach


for the soul

masala mayhem ensues.


A creamy layer of coconut and almonds

topples on top of chicken chunks

and lips are licked

while throats yawn open

like snapping crocodiles.


In and out

feeding frenzy

bite and swallow

love at first sight.


Indian food, will you marry me?

so I can plant a sloppy kiss on your spiced cheek

and live happily ever after

in one big billowing poppadom orgy.


Chutney smothering my chops

Naan bitten and torn

ripped and ravaged,

undressed, unpeeled

on our first night together.



for the stomach


for the soul

my ever-lasting love affair

with chicken tikka masala.


Hello, eternal lover.

He pushes his hair out of his eyes and grins. I’ve got Ketchup smeared over my chin.

A noodle ran amok and painted a pretty picture on my face.

Lunch is the best time of the day, I’m like a lioness ready to pounce.

A juicy gazelle smothered in sauce, a side of nachos, dripping with honey-laced pulled pork,

Sits before me. I feel my mouth water.

I’ve come to the conclusion, and am willing to accept,

That I am (how shall I put it?) engaging in a steamy love affair,

With food.

Feed me and you’ll have me in your pocket.

Polly pocket pig rocket,

Exploding and oinking in oodles of pleasure and zesty grunts. Roll me in sour cream and let’s have ourselves a party.

Lunch and dinner may be the highlights of my day (is that sad?)…

Saucy noodles can use my face as a canvas for all I care,

And sticky doughnut sugar can brush against my lips and tease my tongue.

Cheese can slide down my throat, fatty and unforgiving,

Choke my arteries. (If I can’t see it then it mustn’t be true, right?)

I’ll dump shrimp carcasses, burger lettuce and pizza crusts in the bin,

But food will never dump me.

Hotel buffet blues 

At the start of every day

I say

I’m going to be a vegetarian. 

But then one sweaty Sunday

A hotel buffet calls,

Rows of striped bacon, fluffy eggs

And spongey sausages which flutter 

Down my gullet…

I saunter up for a third helping

Delights piled high on the plate,

A leaning tower of meaty Pisa.

Let’s stuff ourselves to the brim

More so now than we’ve ever done 

Because it’s free of course,

Gotta get that dollar’s worth

Even though the bacon fat

Will choke our hearts. 

Thirteen glasses of orange juice 

And a bucket of coffee later

I’m nauseatingly full.

With a ketchup-stained mouth

And greasy fingers

I swear not to do it again

Hotel buffets are a blessing and a curse

For those with never-ending stomachs.