Friday 30 November 2012

#11 - Fortune Biscuit

Biting into the garibaldi, I discover my future.
'You will become obsessed with the prognostications

of biscuits,' says the furled tiny scroll.
Bollocks, I think - and not for the first time -

and then, to disprove the hypothesis,
I break a jaffa cake down the middle.

'Gutless turncoats bloody the regatta.'
I blanch, my cox's megaphone bracketed

above the fireplace. I crack a brandy snap:
'Nurturing buboes, you are admired by no one.'

A bourbon: 'The fire bucket swirls with kerosene.'
A pink wafer: 'Temporary dysphasia muddies

the spell pool.' Fifty-two digestives, all
glowing runes that curl and smoulder

like prayers.

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