I love French. Love, love, love French. I have been taking it since I was 12 years old and actually made it to Level 3 in College. I’ve also taken Italian and some day hope to take Latin. I was told that I have an intuitive grasp of languages, romance (are you surprised?) in particular, but alas I lacked discipline as I was seduced by the written.
I watched La Dolce Vita last week and was reminded of how I love the sound of language as well. It is aurally seductive and makes me weak in the knees. Ssssh! It’s a secret.
I will also confess that I was married to a baker and that the inspiration of this poem came from The Erotic Baker of NYC whom I took a shine to long ago. Sex and food are on my top ten list. What’s not to love? 
The Erotic Cake
Like a cake,
you generate me
from the love laden bowl of imagination.
Make me and unmake me.
You lathe me with your tongue
and slaver creamy, shiny ganache over my limbs
engraved with your baker’s knife.
You suckle at the blueberries which crown my breast
savoring each curve,
decorated with imperfect hues
Until ripe and juicy –
I burst free.
Gushing purple, midnight passion
across the surface of the Earth.
Your hands create me,
a new conglomeration of chocolate lips,
spheric egg whites and my heart’s flour.
Whipped and beaten
until airy batter appears
undulating on it’s own – happy accord.
Your hands mold me
into precise, round,
perfect 12” layers.
Transformed,
I become
dense, creamy,
fragrant and sated.
Between my layers,
when I am perfection
upon a plate,
spread eagle and shivering.
I am laid wide
like the ocean
for all to see and feel,
taste and hear.
My silent cries
creating
newborn cacaphonies.
You cut out a piece of my soul
and for your pleasure
swallow it whole.
Filling my emptiness
with Grand Marnier
and setting my soul,
in all it’s dimensions,
Afire…
_________________________________________________________________________________________________
Le Gateau Erotique
Comme un gateau, fais d’une pate
amoureuse
dans une vase remplie d’imagination.
Tu me refais avec ta langue mouillee.
Tu fais et refais de mon corps
comme une moule portant l’empreinte
de ton couteau de boulangerie.
Tu suce le contour de mon sein comme s’il y en a des fraise
juteuses qui l’entourent completement.
Je fais jaillir librement tout
en-dessus de la terre,
la passion solennelle de minuit.
De tes mains tu me confectionnes
des levres nouvelles faits de
chocolat,
avec de la melange proportionnee des
oeufs,
et de la farine venant de mon coeur.
Tes mains m’ont arrange avec precision.
Je suis ronde d’une parfaite
circonference de 12″
et Je suis redondante, succulente,
cremeuse
et d’une odeur captivante.
Quand Je suis prete
et me couchee dans une assiette,
Je me suis elargie comme une aigle,
comme de la mer pour tout le monde
de me voir et me sentir.
Pour toi d’y prendre du gout
et d’entendre mes cris enfantins.
Tu prends un morceau de mon ame
et pour ton plaisir t’as avale en remplissant
mon vide avec du “Grand Marnier”
et satisfait mone ame entre toutes ses dimensions.
