flakier than the breath of a pastry shop angel,
you're so naive on your little plate.
You are a virgin
before a god of peptic acids
who will exile you to a stinking
system of rubbery tunnels
which will cynic your cream
into a pile of shit.
Woe the fall
and you drop into a sea with porcelain shores
and spin like a dancer in a whirlpool
through more tunnels
and into the ocean where prey fish
swallow you and crap you out again
and you finally come to rest
on a lyrical sandy bed where
sea plants seem to dance for you alone
and the clown fish are Cherubim
to your Adam
till a crab
snatches you for his stinking boot
along with the rest of his trash.
Shame on the Chef
and his white linen promise!
You were to live a life
of elegant crystal, with Southern coffees
and ancient wines
but don't let wine fool you
it's just a puddle of rookie piss.