Neil Burns

A Silent Prayer for a Filled Soda

Neil Burns

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A pork sausage split like an Indian canoe;

A fallen tree on a Norn Irish morning -

Gristle-snap, chip-van meaty-hot.

Salty bacon, thick lug slices,

Laid down in walloping pleats;

Its corrugated pinkness, a truffle-rub.

And a fried egg, the yolk, a flurried sea

Bursting warm banks into the palate;

Its lace skirt(s) hanging over like a counter-pane,

All cushioned in a hand-grab fist of farl;

A land-grab spiel, a garble of vowels:

Oh aye, Och aye!

Red or Brown sauce.

To peel off the milk-flat from the tae,

And downed with the last swirls of the pot

Brewed beyond the black hills of our diachronic mystery.

Neil Burns

N.J Burns, in his thirties, originally from N.Ireland, now residing in Scotland after a few years of working in  London, in the Mental Health Sector(s). Has been published in, The London MagazineThe Rialto and The North poetry magazines. Massive James Joyce and Leonard Cohen fan.