A distasteful poem

When I was six years old I ate
my own snot – just twice – and for a dare.
It had a tang like salty chewing gum.
I swallowed scabs scratched from my knees as well –
tiny purple pastilles, squashed and sweet.

My Mum once cooked a meal entirely white
and served it up on gleaming new white plates –
chicken breast and mash, with butter beans –
barely visible, it felt like chewing clouds.

When I was a student I ate plastic –
Pot Noodles, Vesta Curry and Ski Yoghourt.
Container and contained were both produced
from plastic pellets, so they said,.
The Ski was just Magnolia Emulsion
lightly flavoured.

I’ve been a chef for thirty seven years –
Wasabi beef with truffle shavings, rice
with shredded samphire, roasted Arctic cod –

I’ve tried the lot.

But if I had to pick, I’d choose
the tangy, salty taste of my own snot.

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