Shaking the grains
of salt like rain
over my fries
I bite into a burger
of my free order
and find a sizzling fly
You may laugh
but it’s a little rough
when dandruff
is white icing
on a blueberry pie
A free meal
is a risky deal
and I tell you no lie
once I found there
a metre hair
I choke and nearly die
I pull up to the counter
complain to the waiter
who couldn’t give a jack
just a dingy diner
at the mall
with free meals
and worse of all
you can’t ask
for money back

Like buying Irish tea bags in the 'World Food' aisle
I like to take my jeopardy close to my native Isles

I do buy silky underwear, but only M&S
- trying something sexier will only cause me stress

I stick to those experiments with familiar ingredients
You'll never mistaken me for some sort of deviant

I like to take my journeys only slightly off track
I like it when the menu includes a Big Mac

Don't judge me for my caution,
you’ve no idea what it's like
when my mother keeps on telling me,
cosmopolitan is hype

There was a young man who was obese.
He ate too much and now he's deceased.
He went to his favorite restaurants and ate a lot of food every day.
He died at the age of thirty and it's not surprising that he passed away.
His family told him that his gluttony might prove fatal and they begged him to go on a diet.
Even though they told him over and over that his obesity might end his life, he didn't buy it.
One evening when he was through eating, he had a massive heart attack and hit the floor.
He died instantly and his wife and children grieve because their patriarch isn't alive anymore.
He scoffed at the idea if dieting and he suffered a horrible fate.
He might not have died if he had made an effort to lose weight.

The wind is foul.
The rain dribbles down my neck as I queue and stare uncertainly at the Uber Eats backpack in front of me, wondering who might have ordered foodbank takeout or how the Uber guy had come to need a handout and what he might feel about delivering Friday night treats while wondering what he'll eat tomorrow.
The wind is foul.

Cook for me,
put things in the ***
that make my tongue go
Hello Dolly!

Rock ‘n’ roll flavours
savoury sweet and acid hot
so lips smack and I get lost

It’s not the quantity that counts
just the beguiling intensity
of spice blends, herbs
and the nerve to let the metal smoke

A tourture that breaks and distorts my mind
Every calorie cafrefully chosen
Written in a journal
Every thing ive eaten since 8th grade
No breakfast
Running out the door a weitght in my stomach
No lunch
Drinking a monster
10 more calories than I need
Vaping in the bathroom
Dinner
Dreaded dinner
I have to sit and eat with my family
No excuses
Work it off after dinner
Do I go there
Do I sit on the floor racking my lungs
I can feel the fat settle on my bones
Crying myself to sleep
Repeat

The title is simply
a culmination of my whims
like the whim that keeps me
glued to my screen
tap taping away
tap
tap tap

While my room looks like some monster's den
And I engorge myself on those chocolate almonds

My eyes grow hazy
As my waistline grows larger
The yellow light pierces my eyeballs

As I be tap
tapping
away

Today’s slow cooked ragu
has a lot of familiar ingredients
but spun a little different

The devil in the pork grease
gave me such a wink
I lost my place in the recipe

Liberal with salt, chili flakes,
zest and anything,
this quixotic cook’s hand
throws much freer than weekdays

I only lack the fat slack
of pappardelle for this,
as they were out at the supermarket

Penne will have to do

When the baker bakes the baked bakery bakes,
Do they also bake the recipe required?
What's the recipe for a poem?
Does the poet pen the poetical poem poetically to pen their pretty poems?
What temperature do you bake ink-
To make it a bestseller?
How much baking powder do you bake into a page
To perfect its pagey turny pageiness?
What kinda poem crust does a poem become encrusted in?
Should it crumble?
Should it rhyme?
Should it cry a melodrama so dramatic that drama llamas like “that too much drama!”?
Wait,
Where did drama llama come into this?
Who else is in the kitchen cooking this poem pie?
Is the poem pie perfectly pied in its drama crust?
WAIT-
we forgot about the filling…
What do you put in a poetical poem pie?
Should I peach the pied poem?
The peaches plumpy peachy smile?
(i’m not sure how the drama llama feels about that)
Should I fill the peachy pied poem with orange and lemon citrus ?
A little bit of snazz to the snazzy apple pie.
Crap, I forgot the apples as well.
Well now my peachy pied lemony apple-orange poem is too long!
And i still don’t know what temperature to torch these thoughts at!
Well the pied piper pipes in that maybe my peachy pied poem needs some pepper
To pipe the spice to pied poem levels!
But lemony apple-orange peachy pied poems with pepper seems a touch peppery for simple pied poems to be.
But who ever said a poem pied can’t have spice and everything nice WITH lemon and apple and orange and peachy fuzzy smiles?
So,
My peachy peppered pied lemony appley orangy poemy is piping hot to boot.
Now i just need to figure out whos gonna eat the **** thing.