Whales off the Coast Of My Bed

Sample piece from Whales off the Coast Of My Bed

Pristine white like the bride
in tiers
still icing pricks
conceal a darkly
mysterious moist fruitcake,
titivated with a fretlock
of periwinkle rosebuds
and all dolled up in green
glazed succulent syrupy leaves.
Mounted by a toy couple
that preen blindly,
wearing fixed smiley faces.
A scaffold of upturned wine glasses
shorting up the lot.

Egged on by a rousing clap
from the guests,
the groom takes hold of a special knife,
unsheathes it,
guides the bride's hand to the shaft
to manoeuvre it,
rises it to plunge
into the pure sheen of crust,
small fissures follow the cut
as they bear down
on the tissue of iced skin.
He squirms at how hard
it is to pierce,
to plumb the oozy centre.

The remains are sliced into slivers
for the company
to slate their appetite
for sweetmeats.
One pubescent girl
hides a finer of it
in her hankey,
to lay under her pillow
and dream of the man
she'll marry one day.

The top layer
is sealed in a tin.
Ripening.
Just in time
for a christening.