Wednesday, 22 April 2020


Here is the fourth poem in Brother Binky's series of, "Mundane poetry".
We hope his words bring you some comfort in these strange times.
Brother Biscuit-Banjo.

Everything is better in pastry.

I walked in to the kitchen to knock up some food,
But there isn't much left, so I'll see what I've got.
The delivery slots have been so hard to find,
But I've got one on Thursday between five and six.
When I look in the fridge there's some pastry to use,
There's a leek and some cheese and potatoes here too.
I'll just throw it together and see what I get,
If I wrap it in pastry it's bound to be good.
The potatoes and leek have been chopped up and fried,
In the pan I chuck garlic and pepper and salt.
I then crumble in stilton, the King of all cheese,
With a stir of the filling it's ready to go.
I remove the cold pastry from inside the fridge,
And I flour the surface so nothing can stick.
As I roll with my pin and the pastry gets thin,
I go forward and back then I turn and repeat.
I look down at the sheet that I've just flattened out,
And there's something inside it I can't quite make out.
So I lean to the counter and peer at the mark,
It is ever so small and it's round and it's dark.
I lean closer to see. Has the black become red?
Then the pastry flies up and envelopes my head.
I can't breathe and it feels like my body is lost,
I have rolled out the pastry, but shit, at what cost?
Though my limbs are all flailing I can't feel them swing,
Just the pastry my facetry becoming one thing.
There was something I thought, but I think I forgot,
There was air in my lungs but there wasn't a lot.
But it's fine I don't think I'll be needing it now,
I am muddled and fuddled my thinkles are how.
I'm as big as the world like a savoury mat,
I am not me, I'm pastry, I'm beige and I'm flat.