- Post 18 November 2010
- Last Updated on 19 November 2010
- By Adebowale Oriku
Are growing with his own on his pubis. And up there at the altar,
He appears to all to be waiting heels over head with a burning
Candle for his bride, but actually he is head over heels With the candlelight sufficiently killed by harsh daylight.
And there is no forgetting
That the bride, called 'maiden' on this day, is no maiden
Under her white gown… She’s called ‘Flower’ on this occasion
And she wears so many - remember folks, she is long deflowered.
And, I, Toaster at the Reception, truly wish between my speech
To spray the bride’s gown with a lot of champagne to hard-coat
Her teetotaller soul for when her husband will reel into their home
Soaked in drink, tell her here and now that the winsome woman her man
Slept with months into his fiancéhood, even only couple of days ago,
Is winking at him from a front seat.
I wish I could tell the groom this very moment that the wealthy man
Who has sworn to bed his beautiful bride when she becomes
A wife sits at his side on the High Table, Chair of the Occasion,
Leching, pretty much leering at the bride, signing a check
With fingers fat as the hand which holds them, a fat check
To present the couple, to woo the bride, to tell her that money
Unbeknownst to all, the wedding band is less
Than eternal, a line is grooved through a point of the endless ring,
So thin all who look will never know there is a line, faultline, that a bit
Of heat from the finger will enlarge it, open it, melt it altogether.
The multi-storey gateau cake cannot hide well-enough the red blusher
That highlights the blush of uncertainty the dark skin of the bride
Has almost killed - she is truly unsure of all this, or maybe she's
Only demure. But the groom is surer,
Cocksure even, confident, grinning, smiling, although
Partly in reply to the wink and kissable pout of a paramour sitting
Somewhere salient in the hall, his sugarmama who calls him affectionately,
‘My Everlasting Gigolo,’ and ‘My Eternal Toyboy' every now and then.
I wish I could tell the couple that life would be cakes and ales and wine
and whatnot only if they could take
The place of the tiny wax couple on the tip of the cake
Tread a cakewalk, cakedance, all on the tip of the cake,
That all life’s snow and slush would become like sweet
Colourful icing, all sand and soil become nut-buried marzipan.
But, hey, the reality is that the cubes of cake they feed each other might
As well be the unforgotten flesh of an old lover, the wine no more
Than the taste of the dribbly spittle of yet another bygone lover.
And the couple’s cake-tongued kiss? Two innocent doves kissing,
Billing? Or a hen pecking the fire our of cockscomb?
Kiss of life, maybe, a future life, a long life in which they’ll grow into Punch
And Judy? Kiss of death? Oh no! Enough of this cynicism. But who whispers
Something like ‘it’s a Judas Kiss’ there…
For now let us drink to the health... not of the bride and groom,
But to the union’s health.