Wednesday, January 04, 2006
It's simple, really.
Snow cakes evolved from a layer
Of parmesan melt-wrapped onto the spoon
Left in the dishwasher for a week. Cologne's
drawing power draws from its
Draughtsmen's glib expertise at the tweezers.
But all's reducible, now. Back to the icicles
Of non-sequiturs flaying the horse's rump
At the edge of the cave. And the page's
Penchant for snow cakes seems anachronistic.
Another German town under the Revolution
Was Mainz. Let them eat snow cakes, really.
Last week, a shopper found a toothless grin
Baked in a brioche of self-denial.
A windy absence at the centre of history.
But truth gets chewier as the tumbrel
Approaches the scaffold. Editor notes
That cooking delights in prose.
A snow cake needs an egg, an idea, some flour,
A territory, and an ex-lover's
Toothbrush flying its frayed surrender.