The Picnic [Day 3]

Sirens brew the cacophony
that stirs at 300 degrees, a pinch
of salt, some bone marrow extract:
they aren’t sure of the servings.

Policemen fidget with the squeaks
of the pressure cooker, a pinch
of salt, some water and garnish:
shall we put the bones in or the meat?

The burning man sincerely tips
his hands forth, the steel rings of
non-stick pans simmer the pastes:
we mustn’t let them burn out.

The sleeping child obedient in his
cries, sautés the pot with blood,
the browning batter popping:
didn’t we mix in too much already?

The wooden body of the house lays
in wait with fine China, but the cluttering
glass cannot burn itself away:
We have dishes lined with sharp edges,”

The platter is such a messy gamble,
the servings, half full; the screams add
the polite rosy scent to this song:
“three drunkards and seven cats per plate.”

The rotting corpses, the walking dead
surround the gardens of Eden- quite full
with the entertainment for the day:
The jelly had a marvellous touch,
wouldn’t you say?”

The heinous souls, quite unknown,
very silent with their important words
sit waiting for clean palettes, and begin:
Let the cooks find the recipe book:
we need entrées, main course and chagrin


6 thoughts on “The Picnic [Day 3]

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