Hot Ice Cream on the Alter of Peach crumbles There were millions of countless tidbits of bread crumbs Black, gold, pink, brown, green and red flacks, Covering spherical cylinders of fried peaches, Sri Lankan style..hot chilli sweet, There was no debate about whether African or Indian apple crumble Is better, Even when laced with tamarind syrup, amarula or white ice cream seductions. The beautiful dessert, Dictated passionate departure from protocol, Or any protocols for that matter. In any case I start with the end, dessert- then visit the beginning. Upside down, inside out, inside down, Outside up or straight zig zag. The buffet was what everyone would love., Different un-resistible black laced human resistances waiting to be struck, By the one forked finger on the palm of the spiritual tongue, Battle One - Appetizer of oval masala poppadum with yorghurt; With hot and sour pickles in vegetable shahi samosa; Battle Two - Continental Frontier French Onion Soup; Battle Three - Asian Thai Salt and Black Pepper stir fried tiger prawns in vegetable leaves spices; Battle Four – African Sadza/ugali and Black Mazondo, aka cow heals in unmentionables; Battle Five – Peach Crumbles in golden G- threads ice cream. Food should not sound so complicated, Yet when I order Sushi I like to sound Japanese, Despite my white Sadza centric nature. I softly slapped the peach crumble with the dishing spoon, And there was disdained little reaction. I scooped the peach crumble with humility, And there were a million sensations on my tongue, spine and key muscles. My tongue kept spanking the peaches, their container, the crumbs and ice cream, Savoring again a trillion sensuous feelings, Sensations of galactic surrenders, Like an overwhelmed lover courting a black beauty. I will try not to bore you with the tattoo on the peach, Or the aroma on salt and pepper vibrating leaves, Neither will I sing about the singing ice cream bowl waist, Nor shall I scoop the peach with honorable humility. I know you know our alter of sweet peace, Shall soon visit your wailing for me to visit your hotel of buffets, Of ugly honey and beautiful things, Laced with crumbles and hot ice cream on your various lips. Like before, I know, your sensations of five course buffets of love, Will leave me with a galactic zillion of lingering tongue memories, Yearning for more of everything from the lisps of our conjoined spirits. To sheer crazy touches that induce earthquakes. If all the love you can give me are crumbs, I will still love you my genetic combination. I will never tire to prepare you buffets, That ignite our insatiable consciousnesses, Through spices from our untamed carnivorous instincts. Our spiritualties are barbaric in their splattering ice cream, On the peaches of our sweet souls’ creams. Our Alter of hot ice creams is legendary; I shall exalt it forever- Anyway which way, how, why, any when with us. As long as we breathe each other, And emotionally satisfy each other Each itch of our many cravings, Is a smile on our Hot Ice Cream on the Alter of Peach Peace. (c) titus moetsabi, 160813
Posted on: Fri, 16 Aug 2013 00:59:08 +0000
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