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Season To Taste

from Frowned Sounds by Helên Thomas

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about

Season To Taste written by Helên Thomas with music by Owen J.

lyrics

In spring I simmered Easter bunny stew,

Beneath its skin: dumplings of myxoma,

For caviar of lambs’ eyes and of ewe,

Ram-raided the carrion crows’ larder,

Fried bulbs of daffodils and bells of blue,

Their shoots adorned pasta primavera,

For cappuccino frothed spit of cuckoo,

With jam tart wounds: tacky red stigmata,

For drastic weight loss, I prepared for you,

My special: tagliatelle toxocara,

And plastic-surgeons’ pinky residue:

Liposuction taramasalata.

The outcome was not what I had contrived,

You gorged yourself, yet somehow you survived.


In summer, kernels of apricot ground,

And marzipanned cake fit for a new bride,

Then digitalis ‘vine leaves’ wrapped round

A mulch of garden molluscs, that died,

From slug pellets, or cider slow drowned.

For black peppercorns I utilised,

Laburnum and lupin secrets I found.

Dishevelled salad I tossed, which comprised

Of rhubarb's dark green to keep your sleep sound,

Before which, nettle stings I stitched inside

Your dental floss; then I urged homeward bound

To your mouth, African bees' suicide.

Come breakfast all I could heave was a sigh,

For all my efforts you deigned not to die.


In autumn: sundried, road-kill casserole,

Cow-bar culled, magpie inspected, pecked,

Blood marinated potage of pothole,

Maggot-riced, rock salted and flat packed,

Morsels tweezer-peeled from tarmac’s clefts,

With sulphur tufts and rare game braised, I served

A spill of tongues with juicy marrow cracked,

Then Granny Smith’s most vile windfall dessert:

A boozy, worm-holed sludge of apples bruised,

For raisins: drunk wasps and blue bloated flies,

With nutty gravel crumble, clay clods baked;

Poured septic sauce called ‘custard’ on the side.

Three portions later, to my sad surprise,

My favours failed to bring forth your demise.


Dead winter saw sorbet of yellow snow,

And warm umbles spice-mulled in caribou,

With goblets steam full of festive Merlot,

Spread giblet fois gras from geese with bird flu

For nibbles: old starving snowmen’s noses

Made carrot soup; and dubious fondue

Tainted taste buds with tuberculosis,

From gobbets of phlegm hacked into tissue,

I sauced for pasta evergreen pesto,

Of nasal descent and I laughed when you

Guessed, “Hmm, truffle oil?” You hadn’t noticed,

When you’re tucking in, that I never do.

Then as Christmas re-lit our attraction...

You died from allergic nut reaction.

credits

from Frowned Sounds, released October 7, 2018
Words: Me
Music: Owen J.

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about

Helên Thomas UK

Reformed poet. Woman one from wonky synth duo Tingle In The Netherlands.
You will find dark, difficult, experimental music here and by way of a total contrast, some up tempo poetry for children and, if I can find it all, an ad hoc archive of randomness for grown ups and idiots.
Make of this what you will. Note to parents: not all of the adult poems are suitable for children. Please supervise.
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