Mealtime

This is my first completed poem for the first time in about, three years.

“Don’t take my milk,” he quipped

far back in the foyer

I found a thimbles worth when I opened the fridge

Serendipity left a stray pencil on the counter

I snatched it, no lead

The cabinet mysteriously stubborn,

I found a pen, and wrote this

against all odds

I usually write on prettier parchment,

but this will do.

They think I am cooking, but I am writing

When they think I am writing, I lay idle

I suppose I am a slave to the pen after all

Murphy come round and get me,

my calloused digits do not listen

I ripped the parchment off of the pad,

and continuously I looked up but could not stand

Doubt, now reeling in

The sausages are ready

The paper stained, I write

as my meal burns

This is priority, sizzling, fearful

It’s just burnt food, I’ve done worse

The sausages were fine,

I sacrificed ones flesh in scientific retort

“You lied.”

I swirled them in the pot of water and brine,

and said, there are better things to do

No one should read this, nor should they

I ordered the papers, no rush, no urge

autodidactic flesh

I severed the sausage again in another experiment

an unpleasant meal awaits,

but my loins have always been a most agreeable bunch

Author's Note

i know it's a bit choppy, but how do you think I did for the first poem I have finished in so many years? be harsh.

Reviews

[Amber Doll]

Have you ever conceived that possibly the 'choppiness' is a deep subconscious metaphoric meaning for this? The non-symmetrization of this in...form, and in organization i suppose?
Your style is incredible I must say, it seems to be the angst laced lovechild of Plath, Bukowski and Dickinson all in one. That said, I cannot bear how much this entertains me, I've read it about five times now. Correct me if i'm wrong but it seems to be a discourse on life's disappointments, ranging from being victim to lies, lesser brands of parchment, and burned food.
I implore you to continue writing, I crave more profundities such as this:

'They think I am cooking, but I am writing

When they think I am writing, I lay idle

I suppose I am a slave to the pen after all

Murphy come round and get me,

my calloused digits do not listen

I ripped the parchment off of the pad,

and continuously I looked up but could not stand

Doubt...'

God, that was impressive.