Enero, 25

If the ten in the tin are tender,
then there is nary a reason to render
ones stomach as less than sated,
unless sardines are immensely hated,
in which case your best solution
is to add to the local pollution
and fire up the gas on the griddle
and cut down a cow in the middle
of its field-life living.
If the steaks on the grill are tender
and the shots are well mixed in the blender
then the conditions are sated
for an evening elated
of stress and care devolution,
unless there’s been a bit of dilution
of the barbecue sauce or the Cuervo
that prevents from achieving that plataue
and the hum of the buzz is missing.
It’s a sad and sorted affair
when the stuffing is already there,
but the parts in their sum
still leave something undone.
You find yourself gumming your wine
consuming the night in decline
of raw and packed-in misgivings.

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A day is not done, until it's filled with words.

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