I bought a perfect pineapple
It screamed of being sweet.
It’s burnt orange blush,
It pale green spiked leaves.
To try and preserve such beauty,
Would bear sour fruit.
To fight for its posterity when it will not fight too.

So I lopped off it’s head
Carefully removed its fruit and
Casually discarded its core
And satisfied my craving
Done before you begin. Safe.

I heard a man once say.
“A good soldier can go from having a cup of tea to mind bending violence in the blink of an eye”
As action movie cool as this sounds
I found it weirdly troubling.

A cackle of hens
A parliament of baboons
They giggle and guffaw
Ladylike buffoons

The alcohol flows
The snow falls deep
The dads watch through squinted eye
The Bahamas vibe, new age sheep

They waltz to their yachts
New dresses flowing
Their saunter falters
Their confidence still growing

The skies were grey
The rain fell fat
Her smile was wide
Sheets, covered that.

To get lost on a shelf.
A journey, couch potato tourist,
Book upon book, fantastical and fact
An expergefactor for the literary senses.

A sofa that swallows you whole
with an old fashioned friend,
stirring bourbon thoughts and
swirling orange twists

A wall of books,
novels and tomes.
Hemingway nestled next to Palahniuk.
Generational angst and
Alphabetical Chaos!

Establishing hierarchical roles
Nicaean council for food stuffs
The meal that breaks ones fast
A culinary czar
His Rasputin, not another repast
His downfall not so obvious
A cuisine coup d’état,
Caffeinated beverages.
‘Twas coffee that stormed the breakfast Bastille