Mortaljive: The Rest is Silence

There is no still point in all the Universe, and that is the rock upon which I stand

Sunday, October 02, 2016

Not the sense of it

rise of the condiments

it will all make sense soon:
the glass containers
plastic bottles
monkey dishes
little packets

all of them agree
that what goes on the cadaver
should have a certain familiarity
something common and recognizable

ketchup, mustard, relish
childhood garnished
ah, but later on...
cumin, taragon, cholula
sprigs of cathedrals
aromatic fatimas
sauce upon sauce

and yet

a squeeze of lemon on a fish's eye
makes the waiter cry, cry, cry
spread the eagle on the plate
dine upon the country's fate
and cry, cry, cry



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