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(diaryland)
May 17, 2001 - 7:03 p.m.
A week of food mishaps. Last Wednesday, I had satay sausage for lunch. I took the lid off my container and got a bowl down from a shelf to put it in. The bowl happened to contain a substantial amount of tepid dishwater, which I only found out after I had tipped it all on my lunch. I still ate the lunch.Two nights later, I went to my parents� house for dinner. My Dad cooked it. It was beef something-or-other. I looked down at one of the beef chunks and saw something that couldn�t possibly have been but looked a lot like some kind of pee-hole. In my dinner. A fleshy, wobbly tube-thing with a neat hole at the end. It couldn�t possibly have been animal plumbing but whatever it really was it didn�t make dinner more appetising. I still ate the dinner.On Tuesday, I was forced to go out to lunch with my boss and a guy that used to work for him. I hated the guy. He made a lot of jokes. I knew he was telling jokes by the way he shook his head when he said them. That was the only way you could tell the difference between his normal conversation and his funny conversation. He was pasty and had long fingers that toyed with the rubbish on the table. I hate it when people play with rubbish. Rubbish isn�t meant to be fun. It must not be folded neatly. And the fact that his fingers were long and snakey didn�t help one bit. I was on the verge of gagging merely from looking at this display of flagrant rubbish and jokes, but then suddenly he asked me a banal question and he spat all over my chicken curry. ALL OVER IT. Hardly any was salvageable. My boss had bought me the lunch, so I couldn�t very well say, �Uh, hey, boss � could you get me another massive lunch because this idiot sprayed saliva and chewed rice all over it?� Even if I had substituted �idiot� for a nicer word, I didn�t see things turning out for the best. So I kept quiet. I still ate the lunch. Dude.______________________ In this poem I pretended to be a seedy supervillain mastermind explaining his/her motives to the detective in a black-and-white film. Film Noir. and there he was
AGAIN sorry for shouting,
but it was a big surprise he remained tight-lipped so i
took his legs gently, harmoniously
(if there is such a word)
and unmade him in time to the music
(how long?
� � not long.) we stood there for years and i dripped twice but he was already gone.
i blame
stupid TV shows
� � for this we both twitched, he
trying to escape, ruining any symmetry
(people die prettier, faster) because i am done with either of you.
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