Love Biscuits

No cut and paste pleasantries for my palate please. I cannot be contained with the small words kept in your pocket. I will not be tamed by your treats. You need to call me from deep in your belly, with a sound that I cannot ignore. If you love me – feel overwhelmed by passion for me – then paint on me with letters that burn through my skin. Mesh with my insides. Spell strong, beautiful, inspiring, radical, activist, and revolutionary. I have to be changed by your expression. Be part of my transformation and re-create this time and place.


Make up words for me.  Let the consonants trip off your tongue and onto mine: mallikable, titipm, allow vowels to roll around your cheeks: flipoppoolompimpa, yumilo. Create a new language for me that only you and I can share, bring me into your world, entice me. Howl with me, in those hide-in-dusty-corner moments. Create tiny shelters, out of discarded transient tastes and I’ll be there with you. 

Be warned I will know if you try to fob me off with gobbledegook or baby talk. I need those sounds to contain your energy. I can tell if they do, or if they don’t. They have to stand alone in a room and be their own entity. Cast spells with your guttural utterances.  Lead me into new worlds, where I shed my mask and transform into my under-the-skin-self, the self that lies in the beat of my heart and pump of my veins.


Find hidden pieces of magic you want to share with me. Share the vision that has peeled back your eyes to widen the surprise of the sight before them. Cast me with myth, make names for me, sea-shankicle or rambuncooolsly. My hair will change from brown to midnight blue, your face may grow scales and glow in the dark. I do not care. We will become the creatures from our own stories and claim back the streets we walk upon.

Do not go to the shallow media puddles and dredge up sodden pulpy words to throw at me. Don’t hand me ‘babe’ as a reward and expect your thighs to be warmed tonight. I won’t be trained by these off the shelf words, for pets. A Frisbee flung ‘darling’ hurled in my direction, will not be caught with both hands. I will not be a catalogue ordered moment in your life.

Make your passion tangible, whisper through my thick skin, to the underbelly – soft and changeable. I wait to be woken by the power of your words. 

Creative Commons Licence
This work by Thomas and Anita MacCallum is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License.


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