Run run run as fast as you can, you can’t chase me I’m the gingerbread man.
Patty cake, patty cake, half baked as a pan, bake me a cake as fast as you can. Some thing something rise up!
Bread of life – The body of Jesus. The eucharist. Cannibalistic delicacy. Possibly baked by giants who ground up bones and kneaded it in.
Roll it out and mix it up. Knead the dough, form the flesh. Unknot the tension in the muscles.
Fold over and over and over in on itself. Chill for an hour. Pull out and repeat. Rolling it out and down and back in. The immense folding in over yourself, the pressure to reinvent yourself again and again. Inside out and flat and up and over. Be moulded into place because you are a mess that must be worked on, impress with your charm and, win with your grace. You are nothing without them to put you in your place.
Beauty is pain. Life is pain. Bakers bake more than a dozen loafers. The French are a bunch of Frenchmen.
Bread, in France, is known as pain. I wonder what the glutenbread man did with the keys to the tower? The devil doesn’t know. But as if she’d ever spill anything that wasn’t blood or bile.
I know Joyce is just waiting for the right time to actually show you.