Oh tangy scent of phallic bread, the pungent everlasting dead. the moulded piece of tethered life, a food created by the farmers wife called sally, what sort of name is she? the one who's bacteria free, that's funny, which way does it turn, the pundle, mortar....urn that filled with milk is. Kind cow wheaty friend, together they create some sort of... i don't know. a magnificent feast? a baking trough, brown burning yeast, that wants to be, needs to be...real. The flavoured, yuppie taste that looks like raisin, tries to implore an order to loaf. there it is, butter free but margerine binds cheese to slice, as the triangular blanket settles on my tongue.
this was quite a random piece for me. not really meant to make much sense. it's more an experimentation on the sounds of words than anything else.
