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Conjolted Poetry

Conjolted Poetry

Friday, 21 February 2014

At the fork.

Last night I had dinner with Tina,
we went to a place called the fork.
It was a lovely place-it mimicked a fork.

It had a three steel door entry.
The one to the left-
led to the place with stakes.
The one to the right
led to our table for the night.
The one in the middle-
showed you out after you'd nibble.

She was dressed in white,
clean as napkin white.
I was dressed in silver,
as simple as silverware.

The room was chilly,
almost like cold cutlery.
It was round like a plate,
our chairs wrought like spoons.

We dipped into our chairs,
then took a bite off starters.
champagne was delivered,
in a bucket with flares,
we sipped on it like winners.

She fed me one of her-
chunky pieces of beef,
the chef was a chief,
Top notch! Although,
The fork stung me for a moment,
it was ice Popsicle cold,
smooth as sand papered metal.
It's taste; debatable.
Almost like plastic; tasteless,
With a hint of, "mattress foam."
She said..

It reminded me of my youth,
When I used to pica off-
mattress foam to derive soothe.
I told her about it, she laughed-
as we feasted on our veggies-
like mindless cows then-
we clinked our glasses to the night.

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