He is my least favorite vegetable.
                                                   
                       No amount or level of preparation makes him taste better:
Boiling-
brings out his bulbous, insipid ego
the texture of his flamboyant ignorance.

when I timorously sip him in soups or broths,
his oozing insidious misogyny
contaminates my blissful dining, contorts any ingredients still pure.

I fry him, striving to remove the  
excess of impertinence which
permeates the oxygen I feebly inhale.
but he evades my maneuvers:
usurps bliss and violates all semblance of tranquility

I cannot prevail
against the throb of his assaulting narcissism

I must instead attempt
to comment
(arduously, fraudulently)
on the delicate iridescence of his silkily mucoused membranes
and admire deftly
his indefatigable ventures to pervade my
every.
serenity.