“Psychedelic Hazelnut Cupcakes” & Other Poems by Clarice Hare

Psychedelic Hazelnut Cupcakes

An unassuming cupcake! Other cupcakes would call it
a scrumptious masterpiece. But this one is
just a cupcake!

The aroma coming from the cupcake is like the high-
ground tobacco grasses that blend with our harmonious
autumn lands. It is sweet and sour. Almondy.
Cranberry-tinged. Sweet, but
savory, and just a little bit
juicy.

Honey, almond, and cinnamon. Vanilla. Just
the right amount of spices in the flavor. Honey,
and chocolate. Apples, but I didn’t add any
apples to the batter, nor did I add any
extra sugar.

The cake is moist and dense, it’s all
over the place from the first sip. The inhale is
a blast of pepper and spice with a slight
mouthfeel. The two agents of my inner
child seek shelter from their dyssasm in this
mountain of cold cotton candy.

The throat hit feels as if a bulldozer is
tipping the cake with its tires.

A clear thread of juice across my
palate from start to finish.

 

The Taste

I couldn’t say. Wasn’t I seeing
the whole world blue?

The juices slid out of my body like
sap. I felt free, and it almost
hurt. It was yet another part of my
rebirth, this exquisite of a taste: pinkness,
bright yellowness, porcelain, sin.

The first taste went right to the core
of my being. Most of the time I felt
sickly sweet, but some of the time I felt
like nothing but a slab of meat. This
(the splitting)
would have sucked me in instantly, a feeling
I had been craving
forever. It was the clear-as-sail
by the Black Rock.

I brought the Taste to a hive of psychics
and used it to seduce their leaders.
They are subtle, like wine, and their window
of opportunity is the near future. If you know
what you’re doing, you don’t lose time.

But it made raspberry the heart of the
love-struck human in me. All these
emotions bubbled up, their stirrings and
crackles and churns. This flavor was
the juice of a man’s mind, and the
synergy was unmistakable. That night,
a man in the crowd took my potion and
killed himself. The mood shifted, and this deep
sadness rolled into my unconsciousness. It
brought about a mutation:

For the first time in my life, my
bitterness left me, as the
happiness did.

 

Just a Few Lines

His uncut filings taste like ivory,
a cordial splendor. There is also honey,
orchids, bee pollen. Thicker, pungent,
like a bowl of rum and coffee—
a fruit salad, smoldering on the
tongue. There’s milk in it, crisp
apple juice, and musk—
a trifecta of vibrant sense and
taste.

“When you suckle my seed,
what do you taste? I imagine wine,
or fireworks?”

“Oh…orchids, rhubarb, milky
cloudy things.” I have seen the light,
ipsissima; I know that all old
dragons live here.

Re-opening the barn doors
of his study admits laughter,
then judgment. “Does she think
Leopold is some kind of
lower-class reptile?” “Oh,
all she tastes are stars.”

A tear falls in my wineglass. Its
silver tassel burns across
the sky.

 

—About Clarice Hare—

Though born in humble circumstances, Clarice Hare has been the beneficiary of a privileged education, lived a fascinating life, traveled widely, sinned heinously by some definitions, and never said no to an opportunity for exploration or enlightenment. She currently lives in obscurity in the southern United States with an assortment of furry and scaly pets and, intermittently, a gorgeous younger lover.