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.