Naughty, Naughty Cakes

by Jane Røken

This is where true revolutionaries meet.
Our agenda is the subversion of Control,
our cause feral, ferocious, caloriferous.

In this Temple of Liberty we delve deeply
into custard pies, monumental napoleons,
éclairs bright as love, mushy as sex,

chocolate, whipped cream, coffee, liqueurs.
The moment we enter these rooms,
we transmute, softly, into our real selves.

Walnut-shell grannies, fretful job-minders,
wives, mothers? Nay, buxom dryads, nymphs,
angels, frisky fillies on emerald pastures.

Outside, in the tetchy, tight-lipped world,
we’re caught between the hungers of ambition,
illusions, expectations, make-believe.

Too long we have prayed for the unchaste touch
of rebellion. Here, we speak the language
of desires fulfilled. Naughty, naughty cakes.

Pastries like fragrance of Oriental music played
among lanterns of relish, colours of passion,
and truffles swooping from crystal chandeliers.

Blame, shame and regret — what’s that spell?
Sugarfree, low-fat, decaf. We’ll have none of that.
Victorious we go out, fill the world with sweet song.

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