How to prepare a meal of...How to prepare a meal of those you loveTake your mother, wash and quarter her,Season with pepper and sterile insouciance.Submerge in warm milk, roll in seasoned flourand yell mixture into satisfaction.Fry in one inch of melted lard and spend2-3 minutes remembering long November road tripsWith half a country crawling through the window.Serve with finely chopped corrianderAnd a side of steamed seasonal vegetables.Bring a generous pot of salted water to the boil.Skin and cube seventy pounds of pre-marinated father.Place raw meat carefully in boiling water andAdd sliced beetroot, chopped onions, a bouquet garniand a handful of dissatisfied questions.Simmer on a low flame, stirring sporadically.If a thicker consistency is desired,Leave to stand in shock for several hours.Infuse with distilled hope to taste.Import slightly stale lover, allow thirty days for shipping.Consider momentarily the two-for-one discountBut decide against complicated condiments.Wash thorou
morning 3Scene: A few hours past midnight. Digital clocks flash numbers that are strangers to all but a few insomniacs. A blonde girl, nude save for a pair of resonantly bright blue shoes stands on the sticky metallic floor of an elevator, its perfume of nausea and rain made pleasantly rare with the approaching aurora. An exposed back catches shadows in galvanic light. Looking up at the steely ceiling, her mouth open like an orchid, optic nerves abuzz with afterglow, she begins to spin on her toes, drawing perfect trigonometric functions with her arms. The elevator plunges skyward. Its sleepless gears bellow down its voided spine in dissonant groans.Light on 12. Doors dissect. This is her stop.The wind on her skin reminds her of the time she went to a museum, an exhibition of bare walls with a sign at the end of a maze of white, reading "Now Go And Draw Your Own". She could have laughed for hours but the guard coughed and motioned her out with a fingered dumb-show of silence. The wind blows a
Muse in verse.You charmed me with your wit, though you did playA pun upon that very word. Forsooth,Unjust your verdict was, and so I stayedTo offer judgement closer to the truth.Through you, I've seen the world anew, my friend,Your quick and honest tongue has often shownA truth that did my ignorance amend,Revealing literary joys 'til now unknown.Your virtue can't be summed in fourteen lines,Nor brilliance done justice in quatrain.Both optimist and pessimist in timeHave lodged in tangled creases of your brain.I'm glad to be acquainted with your mind,For I, with Witt, found my wit refined.
Krasny Osminog Jerald Fienerbrodt was known as a notoriously eccentric man. An unashamed adulterer and veteran drug user even in his eightieth year, his epicurean caprices were secret only from his wife, who had remained scrupulously sheltered by his side for some forty-eight years. He had learned after his first divorce that it was best to keep his recreational cocaine habit out of his matrimonial bedside drawer and it was this simple but effective strategy that maintained his status as a husband so successfully the second time around. In light of his reputation for queer behaviour, when the police penciled "further investigation necessary" on the paperwork that signed him out of existence, the only one surprised was the late Jerald himself. However, being sworn to secrecy and recently deceased, he was circumstantially prevented from revealing the truth about his unfortunate demise. Any remaining chance of others coming to know the truth was annihilated
morning 2She's unzipped, fanned out face up like a deck of cards, cool bedsheets under her curved corners. She isn't lust, nor greed, nor envy. She is the eighth sin, soft and warm pressed to my skin and pulsing through my spine with hot forgetfulness and chemical release. I found her on the sidewalk, a neon caress in a nocturnal crowd and four nights since, I've curled beside her like a moebius strip in the dusk as she played dot-to-dot across my smooth paralysis.In her presence, my mind convulses into gordian knots, formed from unstrung guitar strings and I am up to my neck in cerebral fluid to prove my worth; but when the time comes and the door latches behind her, angels cry tears of lonely morning coffee and I'm late for work again.