L’Angélus

Triumvirate of triumvirates,
Steamed in sluggish sarcophagi.
Escargots embalmed in Provençal fluids,
Graves sealed with breadstones,
Porous crouton coffins.
Like sacrilegious gravediggers we
Ferreted and desecrated,
With crab-forks and tea-spoons,
Defiling the fragrant repose of slumbering snails.

(the spelunkers escape by sea)

Agglutinated protein, congealed
Goaty patties, corpses of milk
Affixed to an armada
Of triangular catamarans,
Circumnavigating a deluged arboretum.

Three wise men, frankly incensed, watch
Incredulously: seconded butter
Bearing Presidential insignia
(pluming itself on a borrowed escutcheon)
Commingles with virgin bread
In the manger.

A bolster of contumacious calf
Enshrooming frisky fromage:
A colonial travesty,
A roulade façade.

(meanwhile, Sir Francis Drake
steers an attendant gondola
of the Dauphin’s gratin)

Another drake’s noble self-immolation
Dans gras de lui-même,
To effect a gastrotransfiguration
Of the crème de la crème.

The crackle of transubstantiated fat
Raucously deliquescing in my
Copious saliva.

A shimmering suspension of
Summery splendour, studded
And bejeweled with acid pulp.