Lady Lamington

Like the floating lamington

we behold high for those white frosted flakes -

Bed worn hair like desiccated coconut, you don't know nothing.

In time, high tea is a meditative process for some

but this motley lot are merely players in the play to stupefy

as if they don't know nothing.

And here she comes, Orwellian -

watching everyone's splendid stupendous stupor

Lady Lamington with her silver plate divinely slide,

never so hollowed down by the steps of that silver stream stair flight

The fairy bread becomes so stale and staged from a past summertime.

Still life paintings are like a faded scribble on a page,

And like a box of matches, things get stolen.

Standing still, I was catching my own reflection to meet you

And every hand passes out as if it was uninviting -

to catch a glimpse in how enlightening

these lamingtons drive by like little chocolate cars

And in my nonchalant request to trigger sensory delight

To take the plunge,

Unbound from nothingness,

That first bite into goodness

To give into the highest honour, bestowed upon like a kneeled knight

Before, I believed in a mistaken vision,

In that dried brick sponge, I saw of what remained,

Glassy eyes tinted baked nakedness.

To bite deeper into this golden sinew,

amazed by perplex perception.

And I looked up to see the brightness in her eyes,

In our Lady Lamington lament, no more.