Wednesday, September 21, 2011

a food poem

the belief of shame depends on your belly.
cured from within,

it's soft spoken sanctuary,
exposed the rue-

blinks when blinked at
while the summoner sneaks a smoke break.

these are the days of the Thickener,

swimming in salt.
I'll eat a piece,

when i'm good and ready,

the pistachios are burnt, and
I haven't the chips

to fold.

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