maybe the buildings are hollow,
occupied only in facade on the first floor of storefronts

maybe this whole town is a hologram
of neon against puddles
on the pavement.

maybe the citizens are ghosts
floating by
in circles, or squares of city blocks,
around a routine,
or droning through on electric scooters
as if on muted theme park rides
to the next sensory diversion;
to the nearest gastronomical pleasure;
toward the weekend and its next party
celebrating the loss of time,
I see their tired faces

staring out from the glass
of coffeeshop windows
on every block.
I see their piles of beer cans
beside the trash chute.
I hear them singing
on *****-cruises to nowhere

What part of this cycle
that turns days into dust
moves us closer to heaven?

What feast from what new restaurant downtown
will feed our souls?

From which lonely night do we finally emerge
beside the one
whose presence fills
these hollow buildings
to the top-most floors?

Which of the empty lots
between us do we fill
with a conversation
about how this is all a dream,
or how we'll keep each other awake
on a bench
beneath a street lamp before dawn
waiting for the first bus to take us home.

Dietary supplements
Self-inflicted implements
Gastronomical desires
Quenched as if fire
Turning heads from meat
To vegetables and wheat
Years pass by
You shrivel and die.

Hard boiled eggs.

Fill the saucepan
up with water;
boil and boil
till everything is dry;
then run
the cold tap
so that
the inferno
cools down.
Peel
gently,
add
salt and pepper
and
devour.

A
gastronomical
delight
for
anyone
in
a garret.

I wished you could've met my beloved
Mary-jo-anna while she still lived among us
Imparting on us her wisdom and wondrous ways

Her eyes could see through any secretive soul
Her fragrance would soothe any pensive nerve
She'd make every meal a gastronomical delight
Her embrace would cradle me to a blissful sleep
Her mind could cure the most torturous disease
She'd make every tune a sensuous delight.

Life was wonderful for us indeed
When Mary-jo-anna was still among us
Imparting on us her wisdom and wondrous ways

But she fell foul foul eventually, of our Big Brother
For she showed the people his hypocritical ways
Exasperated! he conspired with the village elders
To drive her away, with lies about her “devious ways”

She's now an exile among the sages, hidden away
Imparting on them her wisdom and wondrous ways
While our village degrades to hatred and hypocrisy
Under the thumb of Big Brother's oppressive ways

The people are awakening to what they have done
And long to have Mary-jo-anna among us again
Free among her people and free from ridicule
To impart on us her wisdom and wondrous ways

I am anchored to thoughts of Brugge.
My gastronomical panache is set.
Walking in a medieval town is like
voyaging  to the summits,
the stillness of the morning air
comes with a sense of belief.
Rossie our  tour guide
quilts you with the  knowledge
and a  knowing boon.
Nowhere else provides such testimony.

If I told him once I told him a million times. I said to him, " Manny, this is not a magical kingdom and your name's not Mickey. So, get out!" You think the message would sink in but noooo. Manny being the stubborn sort just kept ignoring me. Well, a good couple of months have passed and I'm nearly at wits end with him. Rotten little rodent. I tried spring traps only to find the bait cleanly removed and no spring sprung. I put steel wool in every conceivable crevice and notch he could possibly enter. Somehow that mouse would find his way. Now my flat happens to be a three story walk up and it's no easy task for me getting up those stairs, I just can't figure how a short stubby grubby little grifter like Manny might manage it or even bother. There's plenty more morsels to be found down at street level, especially with Sister Dawn's Soul Food next door. Yet Manny seems to always have a hankering for whatever I might be stirring up on my stove top. Can't say I blame him after the two times I've eaten Sister Dawn's greased grime. I guess I really only have myself to blame for the second plunge into that gastronomical wreckage. So, how could I blame poor Manny for wishing to elevate his senses for more refined dining? Not that I see my own sorcery in the kitchen much finer than Sister Dawn's, it's just it is. In any case, I'm pretty sure Manny might have been pushed out of an all too overcrowded family affair next-door anyhow. I certainly wouldn't want him bringing in any others. His gal Ethel Vermen and his cousin Ratzo are no more welcome than Manny Mouse himself. So I remind him daily, this not being a magical kingdom and all business. Got some glue traps and upped the ante with peanut butter for bait. Does he bite? Well, you know Manny, too clever to be caught he is. Until, that infamous night of revelry, when no creature is silent, and the music is maddening, and the drunks are drunker, all awaiting that New Year's babe to be born. And after months of chasing, after months plotting and planning, keeping the cupboards under lock and key, after midnight raucousness chasing a furry grey bitty beast from under the fridge to under the stove then under the sink, turning over tables and chairs, stomping like a madman, finally Manny and I come face to face. There he is run into that glue trap he managed to avoid forever seemingly snickering as he always got away, but now I had him. His head cinches between the double-ended prongs of my Ginsu serrated twelve inch knife. Finally Manny will pay for all his pilfering. There he is looking so woeful as his beady reflective eyes sear a plea of mercy into mine. I draw back the curved ergonomically designed handle of my Ginsu blade and with a fast flit of one prong slit cunningly into his ribcage. The squeak is short. I see his chest swell, a tiny heart pumps its last two beats. It is over. It is a new year for man.

I want more, and I will lie no more.
Call me greedy; I don't care anymore.

I want more money. Who doesn't?
They are never enough. Never enough.
I am but a **** poor untalented peasant,
I just want to numb myself with more stuff.

With more money, I can buy more books.
The more pages I flipped, I lose myself more.
More money also means more toys that hooks
My inner child - he now knows freedom more.

I want more food. OM NOM NOM FOOD!
I hunger for simple gastronomical richness:
Multiple mint teabags to better calm my mood,
Serve with upsized servings of buttery tastiness.

Yet, even the simplest desires, Need. MONEY!
What's that you say? Learn to have less desires?
Let me write it down on my list; oh that's funny;
This long list, of desires, do you think it expires?

Nay, I say, for all my wants, shall grow evermore!
MORE! MORE! MORE!

you don't care much
about the poetry, in set cutlery

and how a multi-course,
when served-
are iambic in its essence

your gastronomical flair
is limited to the interest
of food tasting

so your buds
can spin-off
a taste to your own liking


*Spin off fare

The snobbish din of clinking cut-glass and a murmured ambient sound,
Of fine dining the Foie gras that seems so profound.
Seems like such a class divide from yesterday’s soiree,
Of the taste of fried chicken and chips that street food provided me, amidst its mad melee.
Tomorrow will be the oriental chimes to my ears and my palette of taste,
As I rate the **** of their culinary, taking my time and never in haste.
Never minding my late last night, quaffing exoticness in cocktails and dreams,
Amidst psychedelic lights, thumping music and frenzied screams.
For I am to decide the best of the best,
Of gastronomical delights that the nation offers, without a rest.
So awaken your senses and make ado,
For the show that’s a Tell All of the Top 10 in eateries and breweries, old and new.

.i never could find atheism satisfying, atheism being nothing more than anthropocentrism; it's nothing more. well, hell, back to the old model dispute: geocentric vs. heliocentric models... why wouldn't atheism be a thesaurus entry on the synonym level, and not be akin to anthropocentrism? pulling out balloons out of my *** like a clown... it later becomes something less inclined to a "dispute" about a "god" or "the gods"... man is still over-powered in instances where his superiority is critically diminished... the biological version of the botanic construct of mistletoe: which is the equivalent  of cancer... i always felt inclined to suspect the pop atheists... or the fact that insects, akin to ants, bees, termites, have a language dedicated to telepathy, just because they're small, doesn't imply that they're not "big"... there are rumours, that humanity wants to achieve a form of telepathy, rumours, nothing to get worried about... would i pray? no... i'd much prefer to study... but i am left dissatisfied with atheism: simply because it's pride in the anthropocentric argumentation... there's a fine line between anthropocentrism, atheism, and egoism... the "rational" cue would probably be associated with something akin to: the horrors of suspect... that beneath all the rituals of faith, there's a thinking contigency of suspicion... i rarely found someone who simply did-away with that fleeting sense of suspicion... and if i am suspect: this whole "thing" is suspect... the shackles of trust... what, akin to the laws of gravity? the creeping ontological predictability of general human affairs, akin to mating and dating? oh they're there... sure, and the sun will rise tomorrow, and this night will pass, these are no more laws of physics, as laws of trust... beneath which... gambling upon the predicament of the unfathomable, which is equal, to gambling upon the predicament on the already fathomable... i didn't exactly convert to judaism: i can't... if they circumcised me, i'd bleed to death... the best i can do is play the role of a ****** with a predicament, the nag hammadi library was unearthed... in egypt... and i became crushed by the gospel of st. thomas... that part where jesus takes thomas aside, and tells him something, thomas goes back to the rest of the disciples and they ask what was said, and he replies: if i told you... you'd stone me... right... so christianity boiled down to playing a game of ******* chinese whispers: he said, she said?! i guess that reaction was inevitable... given i already became a catholic apostate having read some gnostic works, and never became confirmed... well, it's like i was given a choice over my baptism, but with regards to confirmation? yeah, i took that **** seriously, even if i wanted i couldn't get a church wedding... i haven't been confirmed.

faux pas, "god"...
                   and all that non-existing
prayer "gone to waste"...
well...
    not really...
           blurry lines...
the sensible atheistic argument...
not when the argument is arrived at
from... a disposition of fear...
    rather than claiming some insightful
bias...
            suicide? tried that once...
hanging from a tree...
             the tree ended up being
chopped down...
but... strangely replanted
itself in my neighbour's garden...
now i watch it grow,
arch and cast a decent amount
of shadow...
                      if i'll have a dream,
i'll write it down,
   but i guess, most of the time,
            i'm plagued with "dreams"
of the grand void...
                an abyss that eats me,
where no images pass,
   no narratives...
                  no yesterday akin
to that story of paul mcCartney...
   no, just the sleep,
        and the grand void...
       apparently i groan and moan
in my sleep,
       i couldn't tell you...
              but i can tell you that
the "dreams" become so violent that
i am thrown out of bed
and end up waking up on the floor...
is it associated with the alcohol
consumption?
            perhaps... probably...
will i stop?
                     stop what?
                          it's this weird
assurance from a deity...
                        concerning suicide -
an unconscious fear
                                        of non-being...
tell that to someone who is
easily susceptible to a dream like water
infiltration process...
          "dreams" or rather: a lack of...
a momentary lapse into the figurehead
of ego in charon's empty head...
            groaning and being thrown
out of the bed, landing on the floor...
         i was right about
        the high blood pressure
genetic inheritance...
    how quickly that balloon head feeling
of an explosion disappeared
                      one mid-afternoon
               when i came off the pepsi...
talk about the aspect of the body
replying with an in-built barometer
                      faculty...
    old people always complain
about the atmospheric pressure
         doing a sadistic circus on their well-being
with regards to bones,
    and other body parts...
high pressure...
atmospheric high pressure and
they feel like ****...
   now take this and invert it onto
a canvas of high blood pressure...
      for once,
          beyond the headache sensation
of a brain - rarely felt -
   as if: the brain trying to find
an exit, and merge itself with
    a mind - that component of translating
brain, and the posit of a body
as a soul...
                headache: knock-knock...
body: who's there?
      headache: brian, he's going mental!
i guess the 1st tier of understanding
is gastronomical...
the 2nd tier being philosophical...
the 3rd tier having something to do
with all the current psychological constraints
and predictors...
         but the sort of "ache"
associated with high blood pressure...
brain turns all swiss cheese sponge
b'ah-b'ah...
                  the jaw dumbs,
   the tongue cannot be placed comfortably
in any position in the closed mouth...
and the teeth start to itch...
   not even chewing gum helps;
as ever...
             does it matter what i've written,
or does it matter, how i've written it?

His rapidly regressing memory
Often leaves his mind
In a state
of utter shambles
While the ceaseless pain
in his arthiritic joints
Hardly alleviates
For more than a couple of hours
Even after ingesting
The strongest painkillers
His hollow bones
Continuously reverberate
with a crackling ache
That frequently disturbs
The meagre hours
Of his peaceful repose
And the flavourless diet
Decreed by his physicians
Warranted to keep
the increasingly fragile resilience
Of his mellow heart intact
Will undoubtedly
douse your desires
For any gastronomical adventures
As well as annihilate
your hearty appetite
Just by its vapid smell
Yet
The cheerful smile
On his eighty year old
Sagged deflated
And wrinkled beyond recognition face
Refuses to fade
Even by a single dismal shade
Cause he knows
That as long as he is able to breathe
Theres no reason at all
To believe
That the fleeting moments
Of his terribly unpredictable life
Cannot be spent
Happily