´óÏó´«Ã½

A metal table surrounded by papercloth faced monsters,
cuddled and caressed with sand papered teeth,
bone plates adorn its landscape, brown, worn, brittle,
covered inch by inch with a collective of squirming dirt worms.

Starter: then conversation,
meaningless adult phrases
passed like ghosts by the decaying lump of flesh we call our tongues.

The main course:
a bowl of violent scorpions,
cutting and mincing death like a collaberation of words with your nan,
"You ought to meet a good woman",
she will never understand that you are gay.

Dessert:
a doggy bag that sums up our lack of time both in this world and together; as a family,
the grey rusted matter,
entrails dripping out the dirty paper
of all those pets you promised to care for but never did.

The wine glasses cease to fill of their blood,
dead relatives collect their organs
and bid all a good night tipping their hats and heads in equal measure
before flicking coins in the waiters direction for another job well done,
"Same date again next year old chums?"