Fast Food Poetry

To you,

poetry is nothing 

but fast food.

First of all, you have the sesame bun:

a soft cushioning for a way in

to something of little consequence:

something not to shake the shabbily glued

illusion of that brittle world of yours.

Next, the salad:

the crunch of fresh, moist lettuce;

a burst of tomato juice,

the crisp tartness of a pickle

as your teeth turn the bun

into sogent carbohydrate gum.

Most importantly, here comes

the meat of the matter: thick

and juicy, but really thin;

thin as the veneer of your smile;

smoked as a done cigarette.

A squirt of sauce:

the sweet and sour of ketchup,

the watery heat of mustard,

combined into a sickly treat, to sit upon

a thin ooze of cheese

that in turn graces the toasted bottom

of the other half of bun, which closes

this micro meal, this little nutritious nugget,

into an easily digestible commodity:

something you can start at one train station

and have done with by the next,

as the world passes you by

and you in turn pass by it.

But to break this artifice for a second,

dispose of what has come before, like

paper wrapping, as it were,

what am I in all of this? Am I the cow?

Have I made myself succulent with words

just so that you can devour me,

and take my rich flesh for granted?

Would you like the real thing now, perhaps?

A porterhouse steak with a baked potato,

a fried tomato and gravy?

Well fuck you: eat this instead.