Orange dances, the sister of light reveals its glory to the retinas and caresses shards of consumables going by the name of dinner. Rain holds back but flirts with the notion, sky crying temporary tears before the clouds part and bequeath to us the final flickers of a dying sun.
( J )
X
I’m nailed to upholstery with minutes evacuating hours, the distant simmering of manna & the hum of the kitchen play puppeteer to my thunderstorm stomach. Unglued, I flee to scrutinise the scene only to find that the process will be thrice repeated before I can sate the craving plaguing my insides.
Tick.
Tock.
( J )
X
We take shelter from a snowless blizzard and deconstruct an inventory list. Conversation, eye contact, payment.
I place an order to sate; process of elimination today due to the smorgasbord on offer. Tongue dances on demand, a mouthful of graffiti. I try to hide behind hands but fellow diners witness my violent heaven in a house of tapas. The fork reluctantly dismounts after twenty minutes of moving molars: a trio of tastes decimated in one.
Lick lips, done.
( J )
X
Dancing through the kitchen to obtain provisions that satisfy hunger cries:
I’m armed & in demand.
( J )
X
Joe / Man Not Machine 