Dinner

Let’s have dinner by the gaslight.
The salad is made of words dressed with poison; meant not to kill but to subdue
The meats au jus seeps out malevolence, and shame.

There we shall project our opinions with blame and resentment in a maypole dance of despair

We’ll smear each other over the bread like butter, and triangulate our guests to our causes; our hellish, nonsensical, tug of war.

We’ll pass the sides dishes around like moving goal posts, and afterwards we can warm ourselves with a blanket of statements.

Burning up with hatred in a bed made out of lies and disgust.

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