NaPoWriMo involves writing 30 poems in the 30 days of April. I decided to have my own microcosmic challenge this month by writing 30 poems inside 30 minutes. The result is um...mixed...mainly painful. What else could I expect? But I'm going to post them anyway for posterity. So...
Thirty Breakfast Poems
There’s nothing special about K.
It softens in your bowl.
You gain weight.
Give me bacon for wrapping round parcels,
eggs for those stubborn skulls.
The lovers showed clear distaste for French toast
and still dipped it in their coffee.
I am no friend to the ghost of apple juice,
the glass which expects
emptiness every morning.
It is time to re-evaluate fruit salad
as a method of spreading confusion.
The old woman
swears longevity stems
from a morning pint of Budvar
No one likes black pudding
but still we eat it
sentimental over past mistakes.
No milk in the fridge.
Last night’s pizza, then.
The angel saw me as a glass of milk
and stole only the glass.
The barista tells me she’d never date
a man who drinks cappuccino after noon.
I remember my first plate of muesli.
Without the Swiss, we would have been spared
the invention of the cereal bar.
I like to whisper secrets to my toast.
If I bite them carefully,
they resemble ears.
A wasp is hiding in the marmalade,
last year’s wasp. We all
so envy the wasp.
“Wine in the morning
and some breakfast at night”
Lou Reed sang,
but forgot to tell us
what he had for breakfast.
The traffic is in a rush
we eat in a rush,
the coffee gives us a rush
and while we think about this
no one moves.
Cereal bars are good
for blocking keyholes.
‘A Shreddie is a squashed brown
snowflake,’ said the great
spiritual guru, and now
they are units of currency.
My love for you is like a yoghurt pot
full of holes and yet
worth peering through.
If the radio is on
family life is coming
to an end, but perhaps otherwise
the radio would be lonely.
I keep humming songs
from Children’s TV
I watch over breakfast.
An astrologer wants to tell
my fortune from toast crumbs,
I now use a plastic spoon for breakfast.
It reminds me of medicine.
My cereal bowl is black.
Her cereal bowl is blue.
I want her cereal bowl
but cannot give up my own.
There is no butter left
in the fortress.
I lick dry fingers.
Raspberry jam seeds between my teeth.
I cannot kiss you
knowing they exist.
Our kitchen clock is cheap
but keeps bad time.
The difference between good and bad
cannot be found there.
I eat in my pyjamas.
Sometimes I eat my pyjamas.
If I eat breakfast in bed, I know
crumbs will linger like longing.
The same jay cloth has washed the plates
for years. It has developed a personality
similar to your artistic eggcup.
I have slept in and missed breakfast.
For this, we are all truly thankful.