With a foetus eye

A new record - I managed to get coffee, icing (from delicious danish) and blood (from surprisingly deep paper cut) onto my white shirt this morning, all before 9 am. A friend told me that 'coffee, icing and blood' sounded like something Plath would write about. He then sent me this -

Sylvia Plath tells the story of Goldilocks - Sebastian Faulks, Pistache
	I am the doctor who takes The temperature of each bowl. Daddy Bear, your gruel, Grey as the Feldgrau, Pungent as a jackboot, Rises under an ailing moon. I have been sleeping In your bed, Daddy. Mother's oats are blebbed With ruby stains of fruit preserve Beside the glass fire Of her blood-orange juice. The baby's porridge bubbles With a foetus eye. I swallow the sins it is not His to shrive. I devour The cancerous pallor With spoons of handled bone. I plough the winding-sheets Of each bear bed with my Surgical breathing, as I die and rise Three times before dawn. My golden hair is electric With the light of Borrowed stars, spread out On my pillow of skulls.

Now I really like Sylvia Plath's work - Bell Jar is hysterically funny - and I'm not so keen on sex scenes being described by using key and lock terminology, but this was a Very Good way to start the day. Thanks, M. xx