Fizzy Sundays

Sun pours from the sky’s kettle

making everything drip with warmth

outside there’s a rattle and a clang

the window shakes with the passing of buses

sitting inches on the pavement below

burning their rubber into the road’s pores

burping up toxic gases

that I’ll beckon into my lungs when out for a run.

The Sunday air is quiet and creamy

writing from my bed feels eerily perfect

ahead of a week of probable worry

mind ready to melt

like an ice lolly

body like a train chugging towards burnout.

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.

Porn

for the stomach

Orgasm

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.

 

Porn

for the stomach

Orgasm

for the soul

my ever-lasting love affair

with chicken tikka masala.