by Nick Gisburne
In the land of the buttercream snow
Where peculiar custard cakes grow
It’s a mystery why
There’s a marmalade sky
When the gingerbread harvest is slow
When the Lords of Insomnia sing
It’s a frenzied and frightening thing
Every glistening voice
Is delivered by choice
In a basket of cinnamon string
Older coconuts commonly cry
From a blinkered binocular eye
As the milk sap runs deep
They abandon their sheep
With a tainted but tearful goodbye
I am fearful my mind may combust
If I carelessly kindle its crust
Weeping demons, all drenched
Wander freely, unquenched
In its sorrowful circle of dust
In a future where flowers all freeze
In a pitiful pact with the trees
As the moon birds bring frost
And the sun salt is lost
We will ride on a lavender breeze
He was painting his wisdom with cream
When the middle years started to scream
Though they pedalled through time
Soon a caramel chime
Sent their bicycles back to the dream
From the jasmine I long to be free
But the angels of ice hold the key
I have pleaded, in vain
But the blossoming chain
Drags the stem of my soul to the sea
There was fear in the strawberry stars
For the blueberries orbiting Mars
But the spiders took flight
Through the skin of the night
By preserving their judgement in jars
We destroyed the mechanical cheese
Smashed the whispering windmills with ease
But the grimacing goat
In its liquorice boat
Raised an army of marzipan bees
When the seasonings came to their senses
They had breached the lasagne’s defences
From the ruins of meat
Tiny pasta-shell feet
Held a meeting to claim their expenses
