One time she just watches,

another time she whisper-strokes his scared-crow shoulder,

slides fingers under the lapel, lifts the grimy cloth,

fixes his rheumy-red eyes, you wear too many clothes,

the sun is fierce old Daniel. The habitué shifts wearily.

With a hint of a skewed smile he shuffles on until he disappears,

becoming again the essence of the hedgerow, the verge, the hill.

Apfelstrudel

Timeworn café in Berlin,

the parents of apfelstrudel.

Warm Christmastide notes of cinnamon, linger

and anticipation of plunging a fork

into crackling pastry,

splitting flaked almonds

revealing glistening gold

and the scent of late autumn.

Hedgerowild

Haws, hips and sloes

on heath and hillside.

Wine dark jewels

and crimson rosehips.

Dusty sloes pepper canal paths.

Bright orange berries hang on Rowan’s arm.

Magical woodland.

Heathland.

Berryland.

Wise Elderberries know their fate.

We celebrate

with hedgerow liqueur,

majestic jam

and jelly.

Yet,

behind a garland of green

a cluster of shiny blackberry eyes

blink.

Whisk in Love

Take one large life

and fill with four essential ingredients;

Love,

Food,

Shelter,

Education.

Firstly, heat oven to Gas Mark 88.

Use the Shelter as a base.

Sieve two grams of Education into the Life,

and cream, together, with the Shelter,

slowly,

over several decades.

Add Food, sparingly.

You don’t want the mixture to ooze over the top of the tin.

Food, which obviously depends on your climate,

MUST be locally sourced,

otherwise, the recipe won’t work.

Whisk in 7,867 grams of Love.

Make sure you get air into it,

and that it blends with the other ingredients.

This is crucial.

All ingredients are equally important.

(However, some think otherwise….)

Shake the mixture a few times on the table

to encourage any

large lumps of negativity

to come to the surface,

then immediately crush with your fingertips.

When mixture is complete

pour into a lined 5 foot human shaped tin

and bake for eighty years.

Test with a skewer to see if it’s cooked.

If it shouts in pain

it’s done.

Let it cool and decorate however the hell you want.

Go wild!

Serve warm with a coulis of Happy Sauce.

Chefantics

I am a starched white culinary creator

And I’m flipping crêpes….

Crêpes…

Suzette?

Savoury or sweet?

We always taste them.

A chef’s treat.

Crêpes.

Destined to delight

the most discerning customer,

who is always right.

Right?

But I’m not only a crêpe chef.

Wrist on overdrive

whisks up a frenzy

to perfect dill sauce

before the flaked fish fillet

grows cold.

Finish with a fence of jerseys,

doll’s house trees

and fresh parsley.

I pretend I am a giant chef

making raisin rain,

dropping dried grapes into a soft, talcumed nest.

A powdered cloud.

Wobbly saffron vitellus

congregate

on sweet golden sand.

Sheen of dayglo marg

dazzles.

Fingernails imprison cake mix.

Itchy nose remains unattended.

Magic mixture

glooped into clasped tin.

You’ll never be the same again.

It awaits

Aga transformation.

A cakeification.

Here comes

six separate orders for

the dreaded full English.

Ten different items on one plate.

Don’t overcook the eggs!

Must preserve yolk

for essential soldier dippage.

Breakfast at the Waldorf.

Egg’s Benedict.

Stock broker’s hangover cure…

Chef’s in a daze

making hookers of hollandaise.

The devil sauce de curdle

responsible

for waste,

if you’re in haste.

It’s all about the timing

A bit like rhyming!

Service over.

Pint of fizz

on breezy balcony.

Breathe…..

Bliss….

Starched whites now creased greys

splashed

with food paint.

Beetroot bled into crusted batter.

Fingerprints of cocoa.

Pips of tomato.

Hass avocado.

Ripe morello.

Remnant apron of art.

Chefs?

We’re flipping crêpes!

Comfort Food

So, let me hug you

with arms of freshly baked baguette.

Let me refresh you

with breaths of cool vinaigrette.

Let me seduce you

with eyes of tempting chocolate cake.

So, let me drench you

with tears of strawberry milkshake.

Food is my Biggest Sin

Food is my biggest sin.
Whenever we fight, food always wins.
Food is a big part of life.
You don’t eat when you’re a girlfriend, but eat loads as a wife!
Then as you grow, you become a mum,
and you realise you have quite a mum tum.
From munching on kids’ leftover food,
and finishing chocolate when in the mood!
Cheese and crackers, leftover cream cakes,
the delicious coffee cake your Mum in law makes!
Trifle from your Mum, pie from your Dad,
to leave this food would be quite mad.
But the weight comes on as years go by,
and you start to wonder why!
So you go back and try to lose weight,
with what Slimming World and Weight Watchers make.
But you can’t beat your Mum’s Sunday roast!
Washed down with a drink from the dinner time toast!
Talking of toast, are you marmalade or jam?
Or do you have toasties with cheese and ham?
Yum Yorkshire puddings that make Toad in the Hole.
The quickest way to reach my soul!
I feel quite hungry talking about food.
The fight continues, but I always lose!


Cakes

Cakes, cream cakes, chocolate cake, lemon drizzle cake.
Any of these, my day will make!
Nice and soft, moist to the taste,
and it all comes from making a paste!
I wish I had the talent to bake.
I can’t even do the ready to bake make!
I am partial to a Manchester or strawberry tart!
Cakes are definitely the way to my heart!
Just wish that cakes would help you lose weight,
instead of making your clothes sizes more great!
As you can see I like my cakes.
One day I’ll invent a cake to make you lose weight!

Ice Cream

Snugburys is a local ice cream shop,
with so many flavours, it will make your eyes pop!
Caramel, toffee, honeycomb and mint,
are just a few to start a print!
Vanilla, chocolate, raspberry ripple too,
so many to choose from, what to do!!
Rum and raisin, orange and passion fruit.
These flavours never follow suit!
I feel I’ve died and gone to heaven,
especially when you try the meringue lemon!
Clotted cream, pistachio and Oreo cookie,
or even try the White Mountain, if you feel lucky!
So many flavours, I just can’t choose,
but whichever you pick, you just can’t lose.
Deliciousness itself doesn’t come close.
All these flavours just melt in your mouth!

Biscuits!

Cookies, bourbons and custard creams
No matter what biscuit, I’m living the dream!
Crispy pink wafers, a nice hobnob,
dunked in coffee, or tea, it does the job!
Yes, I’m a dunker, whether it’s coffee or tea,
Just dunk it once, it’s enough for me!
Chocolate chip, ginger nut, malted milk,
smooth as silk!
Put it all in so I can only mumble.
That’s the way the cookie crumbles!

Sweet Shop

I love looking through old school sweets!
Whenever I see them, I know I’m in for a treat!
Bonbons, Sherbet Lemons and Sherbet Trips!
Licking the sweet goodness off my lips!
Sugar coated jellies making lips tingle,
Getting a great selection when ready to mingle!
Black Jacks, Fruit Salad, Drumsticks and Whams!
Soft juicy sweets filled with fruity jams!
Melody Pops, Irn Bru chews,
Love Hearts and Swizzle Sticks, sweets of pink and blue!
A kid in a sweet shop what shall we do!!

Bloom Café

Have a seat at Café Bloom,
in a relaxed atmosphere and cosy room!
Whether you drink coffee or tea,
come and have a drink with me!
Peppermint, earl grey, latte or mocha,
for drinks galore you can’t get hotter!
A bite to eat, a slice of cake,
a coke, some juice, or a nice milkshake!
Come drink with us – take a break!

Café de Paris

Come to Café de Paris
Qui mon qui!!
For a quiet drink, be it latte or tea!
Hot chocolate, snacks, cakes galore,
After one visit, you’ll just want more!

Café de Paris.
Paris holds the key to your heart.
Romance and drinks together, as one part!
Aroma of tea, coffee, croissants, freshly baked!
Come join us in the Paris of Nantwich, we want you to partake!

There are fruits aplenty,                                    Seeds blow, clematis breaks free,

though the lawn is tall                                        plums and pears ripely fall,

and brambles choke the trees.                         though brambles choke the trees.

Runner beans knot sweet peas                           Empty plates for china tea,

and trellis hangs from walls.                                no answer when I call.

There are fruits aplenty.                                       There are fruits aplenty.

Redcurrants hang in canopies,

stacked crates of apples in the hall,

yet brambles choke the trees.

Sorrow grows on without me

that nature will outlive us all.

There are fruits aplenty,

but brambles choke the trees.

Fast Friends

Big Mac loves company –

a quarter pound of flesh

and frothy hopes for youth.

Devouring deep fried dreams,

they fret about fat,

but can’t resist the flurry of friendship,

shaking and moving

in late night drive-thrus,

cream of the crop,

sustained by things Mama used to make.

Spring Soup

Pushing the start of season,

new shoots sprout with dorsal ease

from winter seeds,

split by late frost and noon sun.

I hope for future crops,

to taste success,

to prune and reap.

For now I love

the end of sleep;

the freshness of spring soup.

Coffee Shop

Almond milk, organic, steamed, poured over shots

of hot, smoked Arabica,

steeped with shards of cinnamon,

flown from India, peeled by the blind.

I stir, scoop foam.

A solitary coffee bean, alone,

polished, shined, reminding me

where I am, why I care.

Seventies Store

Jammie Dodgers

Peek Freans treats

Dundee biscuits

Shredded Wheats

Instant Whip

Wagon Wheels

Super Noodles

Vesta meals

All Stars crisps

Bazooka Joes

Bitsa Pizza

Cheese Ringos

KP Griddles

Rowntrees jelly

Double Dips

Gino Ginelli

Hubba Bubba

Chambourcy mousse

Galactic Space Dust

Um Bongo juice

Mojos, Pacers, Quattro, Screwballs

Whickers, Piglets, Noodle Doodles

Which ones bring back memories?

How many pleasures cease to be?

Nantwich Speakeasy on FB

Mark is an artist, painter, piano player and poet, and radio presenter, with one self published poetry collection, one poem per day for a year, and an illustrated collection of William Blake poems.

Milk

Milk, warm thick fatty

nourishment like heaven’s

breath, the fuel of life

that radiates and sparks

this new delight.

This sensation of life,

liquid breath, butter sun

love from my mother, what

delights await these sky-blue

eyes and tiny nostrils

in this world of swirling

scents and sensations, lights

like delightful milk,

warm thick fatty nourishment

like heaven’s breath,

liquid breath, butter sun

love from my mother.

Hunger

The whisper of blood,

and the pleading of bone marrow.

The stretch of thin fingers, grey

towards crumbles of caramel biscuit, golden

sticky-toffee flavours, in mouth

moistening hope, in anticipatory dream

of the sugary aroma, cracks with teeth.

I wander the streets.

I gaze at stalls, deep eyed and sallow

like The Scream.

My wool coat squeaks when chewed.

The hope of a lardy nutrient.

I close my eyes and circle the rim of an imaginary plate,

glass bone, a bed for a warm shape to fill me.

Reality squirms in my lonely knotted guts as they weep and plot to kill me.

The whisper of blood, and the pleading of bone marrow.

I make a wish, and I wait.

Ready Meal

These potatoes and meat were cooked for me, for one,

with salt and sweet butter carrots,

and green sprig.

I eat in silent stare, away

in some mythical land of carefree care.

Each trembled fork is slow, and grey.

A million meals of yesterday.

What would it feel like to cook food for a friend?

A surprise message arrives.

These potatoes and meat were cooked for me, for one,

with salt and sweet butter carrots,

and green sprig.

Assam

Oh, like tea,

do you remember the ice-thin china,

sharp on the lips and sweet-cream milk,

in rich Assam, large flake

bitter and dark in the transparent pot

brown breath astringent universe,

like seas of people seeking love

in rust-iron skies of a warm Autumn storm.

I tasted my lips, and yours,

and we sipped and silent smiled at the calm day,

and every October floss cloud paused,

then cracked, and pulled in wisps away.

Food

If I had the time I would pile

sweet creams and delights

of edible architecture upon the white glass plates

that you bought for me on the day that we first met.

I would offer you caramel brown sauces,

and mint scents, red jellies and courses

of elaborate designs, like crystal spires

of crisp sugar scaffolding,

that sparkle like child-eyes.

If I had the days, or just a morning for love

I would paint for you such patterns

of aroma and anticipation, in roasted meats

and earthy roots, with warm fatty juices

and sups of rich wine.

I would climb out of bed and be happy, again,

and look, with a kind light upon the white glass plates

that you bought for me on the day that we first met.

I would climb out of bed, with strength,

and cook spaghetti, with green oil,

and mascarpone meringue, drizzled with chocolate in fine lines,

like time on the skin,

like the time that I don’t have now

for food.

I stood as ever stood, my head bent o’er.

My long suffering twin stared back in silence.

Above, a mechanical bid drenched the senses.

It was ever thus.

As the din receded for a moment,

My twin twitched; she fluttered her virtual wings

And spoke from her watery heart.

“Master Crane, for decades you and I have

Drunk together, froze together, endured together.

Today, I set you free.”

My wings fluttered, my metallic frame grew soft with down

My legs stretched, my toes stirred,

Nothing had prepared me  

But I knew my destiny.

I stood, as never stood, my head alert.

The herd of deer, the laughing girls, the quarrelling men.

I preened as never preened, my heart in bloom.

The wearied mums, the dashing kids, the brimming shops.

I flew as never flew, my eyes so bright.

The dashing waves, the endless sea, the fretful gulls.

I reached as never reached, my lungs on fire.

The bullet train, the temples stone, the paddies green.

I soared as never soared, my life reborn.

The islands green, the fishers dots, the cirrus soft.

I climbed as never climbed but hopes were crushed.

Those hideous birds, their engines black, their windows closed.

I wept as never wept, my tears in streams,

And cursed my twin who set me free.

Dance to the tune of a satanic fiddle,

Sinew and tendon plucked with pleasured zeal.

Mimic the motions of a soulless puppet.

Temperate, obliging, self assured.

That to be of use

is to exist…to be real.

Turn your cheek against the blindingly obvious.

Protect a fractured sense of worth.

Feeling totally insignificant

against the seductive mask of sincerity.

Crushed, defenceless and hurt.

Punctuated with plump full-stops,

and curious apostrophes,

in this uneasy rhythm she

has discovered an untried script.

It encircles, twisting around

the frayed fringes of cut fabrics:

curtain remnants, lace and chiffon.

Appliquéd with hesitant lines,

misaligned edges and crude strokes

disclose changes of direction.

Revisions wriggling and scrolling

are interspersed with large commas.

At times the unconfined point

rushes ahead, the pedal push

too fast. These glyphs and cedillas

are part of her new lexicon,

her concrete poetry. She is

sewing a new orthography.