Day 21..Synaesthesia

The lexi gustatoric
takes words tastes words,
crams them in its gob and feels the flavour
not just paper- meat and juice and sugar

Church is dust and mice droppings
gilded with dry lemon cake, could be devoured in two bites,
but the lady prefers to savour it

There are 2 kinds of people
The binger and the  gourmet;
it depends on your need for gratification

I know a man who once delayed the taste
of sherbert glass exploding on his tongue
by half reading the love poetry of Cavafi

Another stuffed a day old copy of the Sun
in fist sized reads, each mouthful kebabish,
grease and chemical,

an aftertaste of jingoism
like deepfat frying when he'd done,
belching as he consumed such junk

This is a comfort- I'm assured that
Love, though nothing special
does taste of cherries, distantly
......

The artist's husband
felt the colours that he watched her
through the aftenoons of painting
in the sun bleached skeleton  of room

He did not arrange them into rainbows,
closed his eyes, dipped his finger
chromafied through touch

Not all pigments feel as they are felt,
granular and slick ; some are hard cold as metal,
vibrating to the glance,  cadmium trembled

Terracotta burned the fingers
with a noonday sun and the grass shouldered the heat
Peacock blue throbbed, an eye caught in the fist

And madder felt like skin, tough yet soft as butter,
warm rose with blush, almost human.
The colours shivered in their tubes and ink jars,
waited for him and the light to hit them

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