03-07-2011, 09:57 AM
Crunching on flavourless shards of fat,
once ripe potatoes, now putrid crap,
petrified dung fresh torn from the bog,
I realise soon I'll fry an egg, melt some butter
in the pan and broil up three bacon strips,
stuff my gruesome mouth with cakes,
like Henry VIII at Christmas Day,
or a Florentine king once his diet is done.
Is this a form of suicide? In a life more unique
than mine, maybe. But for me it's just escapism.
My taste buds can take me where my mind never could.
once ripe potatoes, now putrid crap,
petrified dung fresh torn from the bog,
I realise soon I'll fry an egg, melt some butter
in the pan and broil up three bacon strips,
stuff my gruesome mouth with cakes,
like Henry VIII at Christmas Day,
or a Florentine king once his diet is done.
Is this a form of suicide? In a life more unique
than mine, maybe. But for me it's just escapism.
My taste buds can take me where my mind never could.
"We believe that we invent symbols. The truth is that they invent us; we are their creatures, shaped by their hard, defining edges." - Gene Wolfe