Homer’s Kitchen a poet's grace It looked so good coming in through the door. Untreated, unfinished, unexceptional, maybe, but I have to look for potential and I found it and it found me and it looked so good. And it worked! Wine flew, flowed, flowing in the night’s Aegean after summer balm of food administered to all our offices orifices under the light of more candles than any home should own. For Christ’s sake it ought to. All right Jupiter’s sake, no – Gaia – people have worked all year to get this produce to market. Lifetimes and generations tilled their fields and we just tip it down the same old alimentary canal. It’s always the same at the end of the day. The same old sailors piss under the same old streetlight, the same old careworn alleys lead to the same old bottomless unbridled passion of my dreams. Out of these pots and pans of genius aroma’s colour tapestries exude. But as I scrape the residue from marble halls I know I never made a thing the pigs don’t swill.
I like it for its earthiness. And the rebuke at the end is sharp, unsettling but it's wholly part of the human dimension that makes us appreciate that certain something all the more. Anatomical terms seem to conflict here with the delivery. There's the street and then there's the lab- it's a rough mix to bring together. Keep writing!
wow! this is right up my alley; the sudden twisting images, the mythological references, the technique's you've used... this is just fantastic. I hope to see more from you
