Monday, 9 July 2012


My tongue knows what it likes,

the tingle, like a smile on a child as it embarks on flavours from across the continent,

I look after him, well.

Do not take this away from me he says, gently. Do not reject what makes us whole, you are torturing yourself
you are selfish, not considering the we but rather, “you.”

My tongue is angry,

He’s distaste apparent, roaming around the warm oats, what he says, goes.

My tongue maybe right,

We have come a long way.