Eliah has been a crumb for so long
Stuck in the carpet of his head
Now, back – he is thinking on how
The street smells of mouldy bacon &
Whoever invented 6AM should be fried
In the pan of their own creation
Cold, the yolk of the sun
Dribbles down his chin
Notion: we, so similar to bread
Yeast breeding in the oven’s cell
Bellies swell at the thought overheard:
Food babies gallstones, flesh is the word
But at this hour, no work done
We have not yet risen
From the primordial dough
Of our loaves’ Bacchic sleep
It takes a time for Apollo’s
Rollopins to knead us into shape
Buses help – every 15 depart
From our pieces of eden
Short nirvanas secret
Gomorrahs – like a mushroom
Cloud, the night’s debris
Cleared with the first coffee
Eliah at the back of the bus
Says ‘I don’t dream do not’
Unknowing his life is but a
The chorus of riders pipe up
Fat Omphalos heads spilling word
‘I could smell my m'own head cooking’
‘I have upset my fine tooth belly
Eating from a forest of zaqqums’
A voice over: ‘THE TERMINUS APPROACHES’
Eliah, unwoken: 'I will not be toast.
Pork your ends
In the exhaust -
I am piping hot and on’
