They came.
I served their food raw.
One called the smoke “avant-garde.”
Another mistook the fire for wine.

I told my recipe to the onions,
And they cried for me.
My assistant bled her heart out into the batter.
We called it dedication.

They clapped at the concept
  But spat out the taste.
      “Where’s the soul?”
    They asked,
  As I retched mine onto their plate.

I plated everything. I garnished everything.
I sous-vided my own nerves.

The critics asked me:
  “Is this performance or punishment?”
And I said:
  “Yes.”

They begged for dessert.
I gave them a mirror.

No one was full.

One choked.
  One clapped.
    One asked if it was locally sourced.

And just before the flames kissed the napkins goodbye,
Just before the foam turned to ash,
  I leaned in
  And whispered:

“It was halibut, you donkey.”

It was impaired:
The thread between thought and mouth.
Is it nature or nurture?
  A crucified vulture
    Hung like a basketball

I watched it happen:
  Not loud, not sudden,
  But like sand slipping through clenched fingers.

This still fascinates me:
One’s ability to lose speech.

They told me to whisper,
But cut my tongue when I lowered my voice.

They said:
  “Say what you want,”
  And soldered my mouth up instantly.

I stared at someone too loudly.
My lack of response was interrogated,
My chains like barbed wire,
Becoming tighter anytime I speak.

I’m a flower with drooping ears
Uranium is the best snack for me

  I water myself ever night to make sure I stay ripe
  I heard the thunder scream “not again.”
  A bird watched me implode politely.
  Bees avoid me like taxes.
Sometimes I sit in the sink
Talking to dishes I refuse to wash.
I once tried to talk to a lightbulb,
It turned on, then went blind.

BAM!
  BAM!
    BAM!
      BAM!
 ­       BAM!

Caught.
Chainsawed the product.
No one asked what the product was.
They just clapped.

  BRAVO!

I wore a barcode of my favourite cereal as a scarf,
Told the cashier:
  “Scan me, I bruise easily.”
He called security.

My reflection told me:
  “You blink too much for a cyllinder.”
And I agreed.
Then blinked four times, fast.
  (That was the code for “leave me broken into thirds and believable halves.”)

I’m a memory someone scribbled over.
I’m the museum you build around your hostel.
I’m a vending machine that sells only change
And money is required for usage.

The floor tried to arrest me.
The ceiling held a grudge against me.
The windows applied for workers’ comp.
  And
  I told the walls I loved them.

They said:
  “You only say that when you’re hurting.”
My response:
  “Calamari doesn’t scream, and neither do I.”

I’m a unicorn torn from blood,
I drink shandy — it lifts my mood.
Wine gets me drunk with no delay,
I run so fast… yet crawl all day.

I feast on Docherak with pride,
I’m Cyrano with wounds to hide.
A nose too sharp for subtle scenes,
A dreamer lost in tangerine.

Look! A child soaked in mercy’s glaze,
And me? An anarchist brushed in haze.
Dead words are often heavy and sore,
One does not trifle with love anymore.

A word is blasphemy’s breath,
A cry for help in a world near death.
I’m the king who reigns — these are my themes!
But truth be told… I’m low on steam.

I feel cold under burning skies,
A mouth of sweat, a tongue of lies.
A stare frozen by what it fears,
A feeling lost in a cage of tears.

I bother a janitor just for fun,
A shattered soul, yet touched by none.
See my words as a blasphemous wedge,
For the living dead is not a hedge.

Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  A slab.
  A structure too heavy to argue with.

It doesn’t blink.
It doesn’t beg.
It just stands.

I am not one.
But I pretend.
  I straighten my back,
  Hold my breath,
  And let people leave fingerprints
  On something they think won’t break.

But I crack,
  Only where no one sees.
Not like stone,
  But like anything that remembers being softer.

Sometimes I have to remind myself what a monolith is:
  Unmoving,
    Unmoved,
      Unreal.

A pair of glasses, shattered,
On the floor of a room that remembers nothing.
They weren’t mine, but I miss them anyway.
No one ever claimed what they left behind.

There was no sound,
Just the cold shape in the corner.
A chair pulled slightly back,
As if someone thought twice, then disappeared.

Dust settled like it had been listening.
I traced something into the glass with my finger.
A name? A date?
It didn’t stay long.

There are things I meant to say.
And one thing I never should have.
A hand I almost reached for, I shot in the dark.
A book for all, a book for none.