try to avoid standing in the light of the fridge, it’s blue, unflattering
when I think of food I think of 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
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
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
…actually, just get me a martini and some hope.