"Loneliness Measured in Meters"
french onion soup
and where the hoof am I?
I murmur to myself
dirty children dead and staring
spilling dirt on my red herring
get away from my table!
this is no time to solicit feelings
you need a permit for that, my son
and I don't get emotional until the dessert comes.
halfway through the second course
I feel the stinging remorse of knowing
what I had consumed was entombed in my
belly
as red and sticky as measled jelly
washing it down with whiskey
and rummy-chum
happy blood trails to you!
they just follow the stench
of disdainfully smoking solder
malevolent meat in the murky moose milk
swimming in their acidic pools of regurgitation
a lumpy delight for the lower intestine
glancing,
THEIR EYE SOCKETS FILLED WITH HATRED
continuing to the plate of biscuits,
FRIGID SILENCE, REMAINING TEETH CLENCHED AND GRINDING,
applying liberal masses of bovine butter,
delighting in the oiled frenzy of juices
lips smacking in udder glutenous satisfaction.
ignorance beats acceptance hands and hooves down!
red card for the insanity plea, however.
deep and soulful sigh emitted, slightly arched lumbar
attuned
to the cushion thrust into its sulking mouth
and his
Washing away their presence with a few
(stiff drinks would be distasteful)...
stiff drinks
He seldom sees them anymore. Only when he anticipates ordering the stroganoff. It sounds Russian, doesn't it?
---
33% of Americans feel like Chicken Tonight.
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