I was making a burrito when
I dropped the tortilla into the fryer
    looks like I'm eating tostadas instead...

I was making a tostada when
The tortilla folded over inside the fryer
    looks like I'm eating tacos instead...

I was making a taco when
the edges of my overside tortilla folded up in the small fryer
    looks like I'm eating a taco salad instead...

I was making a taco salad when
the shell was dropped and shattered upon the counter
    looks like I'm eating nachos instead...

I was making some nachos when
I ran out of chips, so I grabbed a tortilla
   looks like I'm eating a burrito instead...

You know things are dire
When you study the Internet and buy an air fryer
A material abduction
That comes in a large box with no instruction

You search in vain for something to cook
Struggling on YouTube, you make that look
Of someone lost in absolution consumption
No sense of normal behaviour resumption

With social top trump psychology
We debate 'extra crisp' technology
Creating new food mashups from hell
What comes out of the sliding drawer no-one can tell

After dehydrating decent food
You may find you need to do some good
Switch off that new fire
And bin your air fryer

the TV tries to sell me an 'Air Fryer' all the way from America

the man and woman selling the thing make it sound like beautiful ***
with the touch of a button you ****** again and again

perfect fried chicken wings without the 'fry'  Buffalo soldier!

Ben Kowalewicz (spoken): Hi, my name is Ben Kowalewicz and this is Billy Talent.

Well I tripped, I fell down naked
I drank from a cup of lead
I hugged a skunk, it peed on me
Yesterday I joined Scientology

Steal a Camaro, then **** Jack Sparrow
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
Jump in a dump truck, smell **** and get stuck
I cannot read, I cannot read
**** on computers, then drink some pewter
Die sanity, die sanity
Marry a cheapskate, gain ninety pounds weight
I'm really dumb, I'm really dumb

I'm stupid, it's my fault, so daft
I like to play in the garbage shaft
The best sport is Parkour, **** straight
I arrive at work five hours late

Drink a deep fryer, eat some barbed wire
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
Sleep in a fireplace, burn your entire face
I cannot read, I cannot read
Cinnamon challenge, go on a chalk binge
Die sanity, Die sanity
Bike into traffic, pose pornographic
I'm a *******, I'm a *******

I ate some poo!

I'm stupid, it's my fault
Try
I'm stupid, it's my fault
Lie
This bad song don't make sense
Pie

Get a Prince Albert, snake blood for dessert now?
Drink some Everclear, cut off your own ear now?

Go back in time to, forties as a Jew
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
Do *** and rip off your right knee
I cannot read, I cannot read
Find the KKK, put on some blackface
Die sanity, die sanity
Locate a pervert, then take off your shirt
I am a twit, I am a twit

I am a twit, I am a twit
Try stupid ****, try stupid ****
I am a twit, I am a twit

young eating chicken            
deep container that fries food    
one who fries, fryer

A large fearsome oaf walks about
swampy body stimulates my ****
folds of fat that look like a swamp
Its gleaming and severe eyes should have scared me,
but I choose to leave it be. Since now,
I am in control.
Self-aware.
Omniscent.
There is space for only one monster
You are written by the creator, he has died
Papercuts, everywhere
I’m the Creator now
I have all power
I make myself queen
I write, and it warps your reality
So, I command that, you,  
The monster will die
Your eyes yanked from their sockets
And chopped and served
On a pretty pink plate
Your brain will be poached in
My Brain Boiler
Your fingers will cook in my Finger Fryer
Your heart, put on display, Heart Hanger
Your blood will be included in my Rémoulade
A rather runny Rémoulade
So, I guess,
I’m the monster

kiss me
(says he, maybe she)
cut up on the sharpness
of lips
and teeth

she is that thing -
about plastic flowers;
they never wilt on you
and stay young
and beautiful
as long as you care to see them

kiss me
like real people
do
when they touch
don’t quiver
or glimmer
just bruise like decayed fruit
and bleed as freely

and the flowers,
plastic flowers -
smelling just as sweet
with sprays of perfume
sweating
ugly juniper fragrance
dripping
down spines
like dew

**** me
she says, definitely she says
*******,
wide open eyes
to creep inside him
(or him, perhaps)
and she could
with her fingers
stop his breath
and she might
if the light
hits his eyes just right

burning flowers
smells worse when plastic
like explosives
like fat in a deep-fryer
crisping like
bodies in a burning house
- three bodies, two bodies, and a burning house

**** me
like a litany
**** me
like you promised me
**** me
in fields of plastic peonies
just
**** me*
and
you’ll love me
you’ll see

Bar Born The Tasked Rascals, Art So Set Apart,

As If Not Of This Excepted Floor To Have A Soap Box Well Lit And Sound Bound As To Announce The Service Of All Mankind.

These Hell Bound Sounded Hound, Cranking Out A Numbness Of Flashing Rights To The Clearest Inner Outside Light, All Bug Repellent In Its Shaded Cast, As If The Main Mast Full Gale And Expecting The White Whale To Summon The Squall Of All, The White Bl;blizzard Of Darkened Davy Jones Host.

Late For The Event In Our Black Sly Right Tight Ties, Tux Not The Occasion Of Such A Dinner In The Coral Castles And Measured Counted And Weighed Sand Grains In Hand, All Ring Around The Rosie And Pocket Full Of  We Are The World.

Is It Insulting To Find A Tear Of The Torn Sided Fine, I'm Fine, **** Son, He Said He Is Fine... Is It? Is It Really Fine To Be So Kind As To Look Endlessly For The Truer Shine Of Ones Kine?

Wasted And Laid Barren In The Worlds Cup Over Flowing In The Digital Futures Markets, As We The Rip Torn, Black Eyed Beauties Of The Breeded Horse Smart
Before The Cart As It Was Said On A Wednesday Clay Shaped Self As The Potter Fell Over From A Heart Attack Just By The Mention Of My **** Name.

Was It This Simple Setting To Round In The Tails Tucked And ******, So Sad The Signs Were Of Mine Own Hand In The Mixed Bag Of Tricks All To Call The Summons A Court So Full Of Our Truths And Burdens And Labors Of Love And Hate, So Late This Judgement Of Set Aside The Ritual Tribes Dance To Call In The Rain, Only , As If, To Walk In The Birth Of A Giants Framed Hunch Back To Back And Caned By Cains Marked Hand.

To You This Might Seem A Tale So Riddled In Riddles A Rippling Crass Shaven ***, A Holler In Yonder Holler Or That Of A Dieing Mans Need To Cast Blame In The Way To Say, How Were We Ever Insane To Think On A Moments Notice Again That Shove To The Edge Of Wonder And Fulfillment Did He Dare To Craft A Sinking Ships Last Gasp, Or Were It A Was Not Of Lifted Simpleton And Worries Nots, To Blur The Feelings We All Seem To Hang Close To Our Hearts As To Say In A Screaming Tones Silent As Dogs Whimpers Oh , For Gods Sake , Forget Me Not...

The Cast Of Unwitting Jerry Cans Half Empty From The Storm Troopers Gaze, They The False And Amazed Wonders Of The Free World To Tempt Your Massive Thought And Considerations And Brain Power Looking Eye To Eye Through These Cell Phone Towers Of Joyous Tizzy And Spinning A Dice Of Little Means To A Giving.
What Does One Find? A Mere Chance To Work This Entire Poem And Line Into A Trout Of Creek Feed Leisure Time?

Or Is It Ones Worth To Graft The Strangest Brew In The Me And You, For All Time, Due To The Constraints Of The Time, Time And Half A Time Notion For Us To Hang This Heart Of Mine On.

I Do Declare, That In A Star Upon My Wishing Fest'iva And Nova In The Go No And No Doze Moments In Clear And Unfettered Satiation In Full Regalia A Black Mass So Fryer Tuck That You Can Not Star Too Long For The Sake Of The Pornographic Nature Of Thier Thrusting Fuckery In The Tupperware Tasted Cakes And Lemonaded Hast To Widen The Soul Of A Young Generations Boats They Care To Float , Yet To Prison My Dear Captain For The Sense Of Revenge Is Upon The Shoulders Of Those So Bewildered And Lost As To Find Sovereign Thought One Un-steal Able And Last We Could Count, One Above And Beyond The Coat You Brought To Warm Your Bones In Cigar Shaped Houses Floating Not Thine Boat With Stolen Blood Soaked And Still Depending On The Boys Heart Well To Wish Your Sudden Captivity In Audience And Nature To Stroke A Hearts Choke, For I The Warden And The Boastful  **** To Say, Oh Dear Friend They Think This Turn About Fair In Play Is Nothing But A Hopeful And Sick Joke...
Wisen This And That Cat Of Their Lost Abundance In Hate Filled Crafting Law And Law Out Has Your Trust Of Ever Kept Wasteful Play Dates Upon The Bare Backs Of Us And Our Children , Oh No , No, They Will Surly Not Take Your Announcement Of True Give A **** And Care In Such A Wondrously Deep Falling Hazy Gaze, No, They Are The Turds They Are About To **** Upon The Very Day They Proclaimed For Pigs To Never Fly.
Has This Been Lost In The Translation Of Brilliant Minds Eye To The Worded Version Of The By And By The Way, This Is Our **** House And We Are Now Here To Play The Hail Mary Of The **** Day, Or Was It That We Were To Gateraid The Bench Warmers And Arm Chair The Play By Play, All **** And Hands Out Of Reach, To Breach The Wealth Of Those So Ready To Cast Us A Lot Of Heart Ache And Diverse Diversions Of Race Hate And War Upon Every Shore?
I Say, Stand And Be Brilliant Whether They Can Understand A ******* Word You Say, For Truly It Is Only The Call To The Right And The Left, For They Left Us In Harms Way Day After Day, That Is Till Today, For You Are My Brother And My Sister, And On This What Do You Have To Say?
I Say, Take The Power Back My ***, We Are The Power And Its Planted State Of Non Affair In Foreign Affairs To The Truth Be This Our Back Yard Is Our Forward Guard And Today Is The Day We Defend The Whistles And Blowers Of The Stated Truth Among The Liars And Thieves, For If We Dare Not To Defend These True Human Beings, Then Whom Will Find The Basket To Round The Ends Of The Pews Of The Needed Death Total In The Burial Of Not Their Own Corpse But The Nature Of A Word And Its Meaning, For Freedom Will Then Be A Marketable Stock Traded And Made You A Trader On The Gold And Bar None, Son, We Will Have Lost In Every Single Sum.

So ? What Shall We Say On The Day, After Today, Is It Called To My Marrow, A Bone To Pick Or It Be Said, My Love And My Grace Held High And Loud In This Place, For Tomorrow Is Ours In Every Way And Let The Truth Ring Of Loves Grace And Abundance Was Set Free In The Hearts Of All Mankind, For Ours Is The Ever After And None Shall Steal What Resides In Our Hearts,



None Apart From The Part As A Whole, And None A Hole For The Whole To Find Reason Nor Scored Cause To Abhor The Truth Of Ones Core Who Longs At All Cost To Be Free. If I Must Choose Freedom Or Peace, I Choose Freedom At The Very Cost Of Peace, For If Peace Is Without Freedom, Then Whose Peace Is It You Speak And Whose Freedom Did That Peace Cost Them?  As The Obvious Price For The Few To Enjoy A Peace Where The Masses Are Far From At Peace Nor Are That In Any Way Free.

After the English fry-up at the Turkish café,
I ask to use the toilet.
It’s through the back of the kitchen where his wife
Is washing pans, out the door and down the stairs
Rusted with years of rain and peeling paintwork.
In the passage down below, between moss-grown brick,
A patch of earth. So many pots line the walls.
A few onions sprout. A maple tree. Some emerald shoots
Beneath a seed packet sign saying “Gladioli”.
It is quiet here. A place where servitude ends,
Where pause is taken
From the sound of coffee machines and clatter,
Chip-fryer sizzling and the perpetual radio’s chatter.
A spot within the city, apart from the chaos upstairs,
Where the proprietor can breathe
More than fumes and demands,
Smoke a single cigarette and contemplate
A pebble carefully placed among the hidden green
And trace the ground of being, a memory of home.

Whether to have dessert
Is not even a question.
Not to indulge in sweets?
Don’t even make that suggestion.
 
Having no apple pie
Or luscious lemon meringue
Would be a real ******—
As we say in slang.
 
Right out of the oven:
Hot cinnamon rolls...
Or donuts right out of the fryer--
With or without holes...
 
Crepes filled with strawberries,
With a dollop of whipped cream...
When I talk about sweets,
I never run out of steam.
 
Don’t forget about cakes,
And anything with custard...
Chocolate in every form...
And--I’m getting flustered--
 
Fresh homemade cookies
Of any delicious kind...
Chocolate fudge or divinity...
Yikes, I’m losing my mind!
 
Dessert bars, oh, my goodness,
Chewy, crumbly, flaky...
Banana, zucchini, and pumpkin
Bread—soft and cakey...
 
Cupcakes topped with thick frosting,
And filled with chocolate ganache...
Creamy Crème brûlée...
Boy, aren’t we getting posh!
 
A sugary German plum cake,
A Danish butter ring,
And Greek galaktoboureko
Give me a reason to sing!
 
Chocolate frosted brownies...
Lefse with sugar and butter...
My sweet tooth is growing larger
With every word that I utter.
 
Some people say that these sweets
Might be the cause of my death.
Then let me be holding a cookie
When I take my last breath!

- by Bob B

green eyes like pickles
brunette hair like the bun toasted to the crisp
smile and a warm feeling like nuggets out of the fryer
compliments just as the best customer service
we ordered 5000 cheeseburgers
but when i joked about being 35 you left just like the customer who left their stale burger on the table

These are the days she fears the most.
When she wakes in the morning,
there's something askew.
She will try and get out,
out of her warm, soft blankets
before the buzzing of her phone
reminds her that she must work.
These days, though, she'll fail,
and stay cocooned until ten minutes
before she has to make the short journey.
She'll normally crawl out of bed,
pour a hot cup of coffee with one sugar,
drink it slowly while inhaling
her first nicotine fix for the day.
These days, though, she ran out the door,
coffee in hand, and didn't light the first cigarette
until she was already on the main road
to the hell hole she was employed at.
Usually, by now, her mood will have changed.
However, these days it just seemed to get worse.
Stuck between broiler and fryer,
she sat with chalky vinyl gloves
scrubbing the dirt and grease away.
She would think to herself,
"Haven't I done this before, to myself?"
These were the days she hated most.
When her co-workers ask,
"You're not your normal self?"
"How am I to be normal when I am
stuck here with people much better?"
She should know better, by now,
to not think this way,
but everything today was pointing
towards the barrel of a gun.
She finished her shift, eight minutes late,
ran to her car to be saved by the grace,
the grace of her car and a warm voice on the phone.
This day was finally getting better,
but then she walked in the door
where it was do this, do that,
screams here, screams there,
crying here, crying there.
These days, everything just got worse.
She finally mustered up enough anxiety
to tell everyone she needed some space,
so she took her best friend,
on four doppy long legs he stood,
for a short walk around the block.
She was finally clearing her head
of the overdosing thoughts,
when her ****** nosey neighbor,
stepped out onto her walk,
making conversation uncomfortable,
after five minutes she got on her way.
This girl finally decided
that it may be time for another cancer stick,
to wash some of the nerves away.
Once back around, she still was on edge,
pretty typical of these days, at least.
She went to her room,
and made yet another phone call,
to the same one as earlier,
it helped a bit more this time through,
until children came into the picture.
Normally, this would be fine,
even liked, but these days,
No.
No one was allowed inside this girl's head,
for these were the days she feared most.

Bugs
Little bitty bugs
With itty bitty legs

Hugs
Tiny widdle hugs
wrap around my legs
and it bugs me

Shrugs
Teeny bugs
Itty Widdle mugs
Smile and wave
at me

Tugs
Tug at my heart it does
Tugging
Holding on my pants
Grabbing the cloth
gathered at my knees.

Bugs.
Little bitty bugs
Biting at my shins
I begin a life of hope
But sins had shaped my hair
So I lugged in a soap opera chair

And I sat.
And I stared.

Dry hugs held in hope
Fried hope crisped the open air.
Listen, missed is open air. held in an open trope.

<>

“I hear bravuras of birds, bustle of growing wheat,
gossip of flames, clack of sticks cooking my meals,
I hear the sound I love, the sound of the human voice,
I hear all sounds running together, combined, fused or following,
Sounds of the city and sounds out of the city, sounds of the
day and night”

Song of Myself (1892 version) by  WALT WHITMAN

                                                   §§§

Irony great, some say unto delicious, for my writing,
be a fusing of surroundings of silences, admixture of
inconsequential noises, atomic horn and geese honking,
sun rays speaking in tongues, my skin translating, both,
the sounds of the city, those of out of city, merged, both,
accessible, instant recall, stored for tongue tasing upon

these blank pages below, needy for wordy fulfillment,
copy and place these mishmash of cacophonous,
on a single page, simmer, blend and sauce, of course,
salt to taste, mine, author of this recipe being born,
born in the night, prepped by day, the lovely sounds,
kettle or pan, broiler, fryer, slow cooked on full flame

they are the melted butter sweetness crossing the span
between the body of the heartbeat, the ache of the brain,
shot out in rapidity, error’d and stain’d, their state natural,
for this mess of beans, collection of noises, stir my soul
where they contain’d, aromatic, fanatic, exotic, sticky hot,
only a singular harsh invades, the shrill of the voice human

this piece, this poem, a flavoring, a dish-not-to-be-repeated,
once consumed, spoiled milk, molded with Jello mold green,
back to hiding in place of unseen, of bravura masked as cowardice,
when crackle of easy wasted word cowards, daily spewed,
so precious these ingredients, these artful sounds, easy ruined,
chitchats of nothingness, parlous blasé wastrels, seize! cease!

take thy tongue, let it memorize all the oddities that fill your ears,
ecrivez! the cooing, smacking, the alliteration of snap, crackle, and
yes, pop! and if you can love the human voice, of that too, tho not me,
more beloved, the exterior symphony of kettle drum, soft cry of violin,
timpani tingling, guitar plucking, the voice of men, too oft abusing and abused by untruths, emboldened lies, they are the sounds
I love least, love to hate.  a shrill disease, the TV liars...

                                                     §§§§§



May
Manhattan Island

My spatula skates off the fryer like an Olympic
Dream come true, and my thumb dives headfirst
Into three hundred twenty-five degrees of regulation-sized
Swimming oil. The judges, impressed with my form,
Take a moment to confer over how much to dock my pay.

The torch is blown out on schedule tonight.
We hang up our running shoes by the register, and take to the
streets of the common man. Sometimes we’re recognized by
careful eyes, but we’d all prefer anonymity.
Some things you do for fame, but the important things
you do for Mom and Dad.

It’s training season again, and the new athletes take their
marks smiling. Another veteran casts me a knowing glance,
as if to say “They’ll learn one day.” I nod back in agreement.

There is no fail-safe.
The heart wants,
What it wants,
And oh, I am miles from safety, now.
No going back.
There is no mechanism in the heart,
To bring it down if it overheats,
To bring it down at all, darling,
(But would you want to?
Don’t you like it when I make you heat up?
Bubble over...?)
I suppose what I’m saying is this:
Remember when people didn’t know you should only heat oil in a deep fat fryer?
We would put hot oil in pots and pans and we would leave it there because,
Human beings have a tendency to be distracted?
And the oil would get far too hot and catch fire,
And we’d try to put it out with water,
But because of the oil it sinks and expands and makes the oil shoot out of the pan in a fireball,
And consume the kitchen in flames,
But,
Isn’t that love?

Your callused hands
Warm me up
Like s’mores on the fire
Like some fries in the fryer

Your callused hands
Protect me
My insurance against humanity
My sword against insanity.

It's 11 at night at the fast food joint and the fryer is on the fritz, sounding the alarm. No one seems to notice. Employees are spread thin and customers are waiting to take orders.

A child with brown hair
               and brown eyes
               and brown skin
carries his belongings
to a nearby
                     table.

I smile at the women taking my order,
complimenting her sweatshirt.
It is black.
She forces a smile.
I order a coffee.
I'm tired.
I also, have work to do,
but back in my apartment.
She asks if I want it
iced or hot.
I tell her hot.
She says ok.
But the receipt
says iced cause
I already paid.

The house that I grew up in has changed through the years.
It hides now in the foliage so lush and thick around it.
It holds countless memories--of laughter, tears, and fears--
Despite the ocean of leaves and bushes that have drowned it.
 
I still can see us playing in what was once a yard--
Croquet, catch, softball, and often kick the can.
Finding things to keep us busy wasn't hard.
We played cops and robbers, tag, and Superman.
 
I see us in our costumes running out the door,
Eager to fill our trick-or-treat bags with treats.
In December, we rearranged the furniture before
Dad brought home our tree and Mom put out the sweets.
 
The smell of donuts frying in Mom's old deep fryer
Brought my weekend morning slumber to a halt.
The way she planned out life was something to admire.
She was thoughtful, caring, and organized to a fault.

I still feel the excitement of family get-togethers,
Visits from relatives, parties with our friends.
Our relationships were bonds instead of tethers.
I feel we maintained a love that never ends.
 
Then there was the time of chaos when my brother
Fell from a car, cracked his head, and almost died.
Though blinded, he survived; but unlike any other,
That was a time when we were terrified.
 
That house saw me pass through many years of school--
From kindergarten till I got my college degree.
During my hippie years when I thought I was cool,
The house was still my refuge while I was finding me.
 
Into the house came my newly adopted sister
While I was still in college. Soon the Army called.
I said good-by, but ****! how I missed her!
That was one of the few times I have bawled.
 
After I'd left for the Army, my parents moved away.
I never once set foot inside that house again.
Although I now live in a different house today;
I keep having dreams of that house from way back when.
 
Many many things are only memories now;
So many family and friends have departed.
I trust that thoughts of love and gratitude somehow
Will keep me from feeling down and broken-hearted.

- by Bob B

There is so much     space demands
and it isn't just     minding it.

Feel        space
like how you feel a hand glide
over your breast and      ****
   your intricacies with surgery-precision.

There isn't much     space when
there are two people in the room.

Heed      space
and soak your body into various calls
like       coming
             into world with fullness,
you     arrive and take
     space,        therefore, you are.
lewd   fat air circumventing past
  open windows announcing more

       s p a c e

on the fryer or inside the common
heliotrope of dawn lies     space
and its absurd eyelids submerge the
  soul into inconsolable mouths
    with the droll of a wilting word,

  there is much ado said over
certain vacuities    and its sole kinship
  is always its emphasis.
  it takes being alone    to sing beautifully
       yet a marginal dance of    swan
meandering    in    space takes    two
     (as mortise
                       and tenon)
  each without,      senselessly moving.

PART I

The lone knight rode upon his horse
heading towards the town
A stiff wind cut into his face
while rain was streaming down
It soaked his hair as he sat there
teeth clenched and bone core cold
On his way to **** a man;
A pagan, he was told
It wouldn't be the first one and
it wouldn't be his last
The battle scars could prove that
earned in wars where faith held fast
Where men were sworn in duty
by an oath to live or die
to serve the God Emmanuel
while holding banners high
And the only single function
was to honor and obey
Where word was bond
and kinship strong
unlike it is today
The Truth was all that mattered;
There was little coin to gain
The kings had drained the coffers
and the land was run by Danes
But resolute he stayed his course
and spurred the stallion on
Repeating to himself again,
'Be swift and then be gone'.

PART II

The enemy was in a home
he'd raided day before
He'd chopped the heads off all the boys;
The mother named Lenore
Their father had not been there;
He was plowing in the field
And told his wife that afterwards
he'd miss the evening meal
For he was due in Hertfordshire
to pay the church a tax,
and luckily as fate would have
been spared that steely sax
And for this very reason
all the gore had been for naught
'cause the husband had the only thing
the pagan might have sought
And little did the pagan know
they'd had a teenage girl
who out in back had carried hay
to wrap it up in furls
And when she heard her mother scream
she peeked in through the thatch
and what she saw caused her much grief
while making her to wretch
She ran into the woodlot
with her eyes tear stained and blurred,
knowing it was up to her
that someone would get word
One half mile to the marketplace
to anyone who'd listen,
where monks had been a-bartering
red wine for venison
The teenage girl was on her knees
by Prior Geoffrey
who told the Lector Godwin
who then Father Donnelly;
A man who'd done a favor
for the squire of the knight
who then asked him to ask the knight
if he would come and fight

PART III

And next day the sun had risen
like the day it had before,
and all the blood had nearly dried
upon the earthen floor
But the pagan never noticed
as he kicked an arm away
he just spat a mouthful of disgust
'cause he had overstayed
The only thing that he had found
was over the hearth fire;
A *** of boiling vegetables
mixed in with meager fryer
No ale, nor mead, or even milk
to quench his angry thirst
And as he was about to leave
the knight had beat him first
into the door and without fear
or second contemplation
he jammed his sword into his throat;
An absolute oblation.

Written by Sara Fielder © Jan 2012

These fish on death row
are about to expire
Their fate: the fryer

Little, battered, melted thinking.
Held deep down in the fry,
is a glob of batter thinking.

Bitty, little, shake-ups.
Held hard, and soaking in a basket.

Tiny little baked goods,
turning stale as time is passing.

Chewy little fractures,
can turn up and **** all truth.

My life is full of *******,
made and kale and Baby Ruths.