Bitterly, prepared in spices abroad
Broadly salted, ubiquitously peppered
Sea-sick sailors bringing common exotics,
Dead on the ground slaves, brought back
From the dead, serving platters of red sand.

Yellow flowers to give yellowed flour,
Mellowing the evening in stead of sun.
Rising or lowering, the feast below is served.
Up to the gull, the fellows canonize for a day
The food served; and for seconds, they say:

“Oh joy, already passed, your food is good.”
No matter the culinary cleaning ahead,
Sweet words of praise pass by the previous blaze,
Falling on deaf ears; withering empty plates.
Now moon rises and shines, far above clouds.

Sweetly, already forgotten labour and food.
The taste of twisted desires, organically given
Towards organic matter, processes of all are neither
Loved nor hated. Merely must be, as they are, for they are.
And the day ends, last hours come: Dance end years.