Foody Land

The Sunday market manifests an erudite philosophy.

All that may be done shall be done unto your titbits.


They shall be toasted wickedly, marinated, roasted.

Bacchanalian bits of things shall be peeled and pickled,


Battered, steamed or fried; garnished, peppered, grated.

The texture is to be considered just as much as taste,


Crispy, gooey, hard, releasing tart blends of smell,

Not a part from nose to tail shall ever go to waste.


And you can but admire how deftly she is dumpling

The pork ball with sesame, trickling fish-oil over the shoal


Of desiccated minnows while drizzling the crickets.

Delicious, unless not. Western taste-buds are easily


Shocked – or something gets caught in the back of the throat

And you fear that it may be your tonsils you’re swallowing


Rather than the intimate glands of some Himalayan goat.

Best of all are the dead man’s fingers, the crocodile tear shallots.


Let the market ransack your imagination, turning

Your stomach into your very own haggis. 


Hope that the demon’s whiskers do not bring you out in spots.

About anthonyhowelljournal

Poet, essayist, dancer, performance artist....
This entry was posted in Poetry, Thailand, Uncategorised and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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