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I Slice It and Serve It To The Dead
Folder:
Unpublished pieces
I capture food from the
electronic silo.
I slice it and serve it to the dead.
Isn't that the point of the process?
Or is it
the metaphor of existing
that everyone is
looking to find?
We never find it though.
It always remains as
elusive as
pickled herrings
on toast.
Frankly I'm often not sure
exactly what "it" is;
or who "they" are for
that matter.
Whatever I decide, every day I
still need to eat.
And shit. And grow. And piss. And complain.
Regardless of your religion,
you'll have to do the same.
This is how we will achieve
the sanity most of us
need to have.
As sane as red coloured ink
running out of a leaking pen.
Or maybe it was a blue pen?
Who gives a fuck?
Who needs to
be so
anally inclined
as to worry over the fabric of the ink?
If it's leaking, red-blue or whatever
colour it might be,
someone will still have to
clean it up.
Stop. Yes, stop bothering the world
with misconceived notions
of self-importance.
When dead, still the food captured from
the mental process of dying
will never sustain
the cost of the
funeral.
