try to avoid standing in the light of the fridge, it’s blue, unflattering

 

when I think of food I think of feasting

serious feasting

long wooden tables laden with dishes

dishes piled high with pastries, fruit, oysters, cheeses…

a feast of love where passion is aroused in every diner

between the courses we rub legs

smoky nylon gliding over a poly-wool blend

perhaps I’ll even let an expensive black heel slide to the ground.

 

when I think of passion I think of seduction

hardcore seduction

intoxicating perfume drenching my silk something-more-comfortables

too much eyeliner and curling tendrils around fingers

suggestive arguments in low tones

hoping you’re not secretly texting a taxi to squirrel you away

like in the radio advertisement.

 

when I think of arguments I think of Toowoomba

tiny Toowoomba

only 90,000 people high up on the mountain range

covered in fog under yellow lanterns frozen in crisp, squid ink air

I really would prefer to take the scenic route next time

instead of charging though a stretch of low lying paddocks

imagine climbing into an antique wardrobe and closing the door behind you

that’s how pitch black dark

and the plague of locusts we drove through

insects smashed and smeared in amber gold on the windscreen

a portable urban graveyard.

 

when I think of death I think of all sorts of things

the three old ladies I’ve seen shrivel, literally, on a single mattress

all cantankerous until the end and have you ever noticed

cantankerous is only used to describe the elderly?

bridges and how beautiful they are, reaching out to both sides of a story

but how people leap from them so the stories are always tragedies

and then there is death row

for my last supper I’d order

mum’s tomato soup, red emperor smoked in banana leaves with a fancy salad involving figs, gorgonzola and rocket, maybe pomegranate seeds

then very rich chocolate gelato with fresh raspberries

yum.

 

 

…actually, just get me a martini and some hope.