He smelt like a posh cinema.
Like gourmet sweets,
Expensive upholstery and ethical caramel
He sounded like an old dial telephone
Whirring through words
Bringing sentences to a ringing end.
He looked like a Kandinsky;
High-brow and rare, and
An uncomfortable mix of curves and harshness
He felt like a childhood cartoon
Beautifully familiar with a violent subtext –
He didn’t taste like gourmet sweets or ethical caramel.
He tasted like bitter pork.
But he tasted better after I’d cooked him.