julho 12, 2008

Homesick Truckie in the Algarve Dreams of Bacon

The sun bares its golden chest,
makes the palm trees flirt and sizzle.
Green sap simmers, resin fizzes
and he dreams of bacon.

Days basting on the silver sands
and he’s transformed, his lardy pallor
turns from raw prawn to copper god,
his eyes shine with the sweetness
of mangoes, sienna skinned women
wink with their hips, click castanet lips
and he dreams of bacon.

The sunsets are the colour of Sangria.
The petrol demons leave his lungs,
he breathes tangy ocean air,
feels the brine scour his veins
and he dreams of bacon.

He dreams of bacon;
squidged between white bread
so soft and moist it holds
his fingerprints like a plaster cast,
bacon, drenched in a pornography
of lewd ketchup and yellow fat.

He dreams of eating
crispy, streaky bacon butties
in Anne’s Motorway Café
as he watches the juggernauts
waddle by and fade into
a grim backlash of sour British rain.

Gaia Holmes (Dr James Graham’s Celestial Bed, Comma Press, 2006)

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