Yoram Elie Innou
At eight, upon a starry day,
When appetite holds sudden sway,
Those clouds of confectionery
Are acting like a remedy.
With just one raw ingredient—
The craft on which the body’s bent:
A back-and-forth and gentle flick,
A sudden whip around the stick.
Arriving at The Rosy Land
To catch a ride at the stand,
The Artisan accepts the trade;
'Now to the craft!' - he spins the blade.
His most marvelous artifice:
Just one component, one practice,
An unstoppable master, bold—
Until the discharge takes its hold.
He scrapes, he turns, he sets the beat;
His pulse is quickening the heat.
With every stroke the fibers stir,
Until the webs begin to shimmer.
The silky filaments now form,
The magic gathering in storm:
A rising froth of fluffy mesh,
Born of sweet strain, from air to flesh.
‘It’s ready!’ cries the Artisan
In pure ecstasy—the sparks begin;
‘Ah!’ gasps The Buyer, taking all,
Smeared in pink sugar for the fall.
It melts once pressed against the lips,
A craving drained in hurried sips;
The Buyer relishes his treat,
While the Artisan falls asleep.
At eight-fifteen, a hollow wand.
A starless day. Nothing beyond.
The fingers tacky in the air,
The Buyer sits down, alone, there.
The Rosy Land begins to fade,
Exposing what the sweet had stayed:
A colourless and bleached domain,
Where joy is bound in frozen chain.
The Buyer lifts up, walks a path
Across this pale and judging land,
To face his guilty aftermath:
For pink-spun sugar here is banned.
With sticky palms and crimson shame,
And tacky lips that dry and sting;
No neighbor speaks the sinner’s name,
No solace does the crowd now bring.
These filaments convicted him
For his own forbidden bliss;
He turns to beg a final kiss—
The Artisan's dull eyes dismiss.
The Rosy Land was stripped away,
Leaving the kingdom bleak and grey;
For this bleached land of frost and stone
Belonged to the cold Guardian’s throne.
A holy doctor of the soul,
The Guardian vows to make him whole,
Yet cloaks his cruelty in the light—
Mere dust that mimics sacred might.
Too frightened by the crowd's demand,
He hides his face behind a mask;
Submitting to the prosaic command,
He bows before the pious task.
He scrubs the sugar from his mouth,
Denies the sweet and pink perfume;
A bitter drought from north to south
Replaces every fragrant bloom.
The Guardian praises spotless grace,
Approves the palate drained of taste;
Yet behind this sterile, whitewashed face,
A hungry fever goes to waste.
‘It’s hot in here!’ the Buyer said
To such a god of sculpted head:
With hair of brown and eyes of blue,
The fairest prince he ever knew.
‘Call me Belial, my fair sir.’
A scent of melted spice astir,
To turn his realm to paradise,
Where revolution soon shall rise.
The Buyer (cries with angry pride) :
- It ends today! I cast aside
Your tyranny, your pious reign!
- What do you mean, my child, in vain?
- You are the root of all my pain!
- But look: through me, you bear no stain!
- I crave the spun and sugary thread!
Oyez, Oyez! Hear what is said:
I love the sweet and fairy floss!
- Calm down, poor soul, accept your cross.
Do you not want the holy sky?
- You are but dust! A hollow lie!
- Then choose your fate before the bell!
- Between your heavens, I choose hell!
-His glaring eyes turn burning red;
A roaring blaze begins to spread.
He sets the kingdom on fire;
The spun clouds melt upon the pyre.
From fairy floss to caramel,
The scalding sugar breaks the spell—
He laughs aloud into the smoke,
As if the heavens were a joke;
He snaps the stick of amber clouds,
And fiercely feasts before the crowds
The shards that crunch between his canines,
As sweet damnation floods his veins.
1 Oyez (pronounced “oh-yay”): Anglo-Norman French for “hear ye!” or “listen!” Traditionally cried thrice by a town crier or court bailiff to command silence and attention before an official public announcement or reading.
The End
I wrote this because I’ve spent my childhood caught between two worlds. Inside, I’m all pink with a tender, feminine side where I feel completely whole. But outside, in the rough Paris suburb where I grew up, under the weight of a strict, traditional home, that softness was something to hide. It left me feeling lonely and pushed away for just being myself. To cope, I chased one-night stands just to feel wanted and a bit less alone, but it only made the emptiness worse; just like fairy floss that melts away in seconds. This poem is about that ache, but mostly, it’s about refusing to stay grey. Even if it burns, I’m choosing my own sweetness.
