For The Two Henrys…

The small blue eggs

sit

in the black wire basket

glow

like the white of an eye

behind

a mesh of black

lashes

surrounded by ordinary

brown.

 

Broken open

fat vermillion

yolks

a zillion times brighter

than other pasty

excuses

usually served up

as eggs.

 

Joe says

all the fat is in the

white.

I disagree.

We google it.

I’m right.

 

Tacey says

they are space eggs.

Inside each is a small alien

running

in slow motion,

tiny limbs curtailed

by gloopy glue of sticky

albumen.

 

We eat the space eggs

fried

with bacon and black pudding.

They are delicious.

Good looking,

tasty and nutritious…

Bloody amazing.

 

 

 

 

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3 thoughts on “For The Two Henrys…

  1. joanna wilkinson 10/01/2011 at 4:50 pm Reply

    so having stopped inbetween mummy things i have finally read a new poem….. well what can i say sis I am there with you and have felt the hot dribble of yolk running through my fingers it’s that fucking gorgeous. Love it lots now feel i must read more goddammit…. bollox to collecting eves i’ll leave her with georgina and joe shall go malnourished ‘cept for the 3 biscuits i’ve plied him with and i will continue to wade through the literary landscape of your mind. xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

  2. joanna wilkinson 10/01/2011 at 9:29 pm Reply

    eggs/eyes – windows to the soul…hey do eggs have a soul like an unborn baby? see catholicism… oh fuck we eat unborn babies or do we not? scrambled unborns with butter on brown. I think i’m reading far too much into your work. x

  3. lindsaywallerwilkinson 11/01/2011 at 1:46 pm Reply

    You, my dear, are even weirder than me… x

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