Eel soup.
I hear that, gastronomically,
The thickish, brown and crusted broth
Relieves constipation.
Eel soup.
It’s got to be better than it sounds.
Plus, it doesn’t have broccoli in it
So how bad can it be?
Eel soup.
Sure. It sounds slimy –
Wriggling around in your dish like that.
But look deep into the frosted eye of the
Thrashing, snapping teleost
And ask yourself –
“If world around us be defined
As interactions of predator and prey,
Which would I rather be?”
You know the right answer.
It’s the ONLY answer the human mind can accept.
So take charge.
Become the victor.
Claim your rights over the flesh of the vanquished.
Eat up.
Eel soup.
So delicious.
Yum-Yum.
Eel Soup
Mark Pearce © 2007
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Comments
I agree with your comment. Men (and women too) live like they were never gonna die and die like they never lived at all...
--
"A força pode ganhar a luta, mas é o estilo que ganha a multidão."
that's quite a seductive description. Should I reconsider abstaining from flesh?
You might not know that the inhabitants of East London have an inedible dish they regard as a great delicacy. Jellied eels. Don't ask.
Think I'll stick with the broccoli.
--
There's always a better poem just out of reach.
Words create situations [link]
The roots of the future run deep [link]
You're bound to publish soon. It's building within you.
--
Still, the whistle pig,
On Monday, bids adieu to his own kind.
As for the flesh thing, I like a good burger. I guess this is another work of mine that means something other than what it says.
--
Still, the whistle pig,
On Monday, bids adieu to his own kind.
--
“Love is just Love", it can never be explained.
--
"A força pode ganhar a luta, mas é o estilo que ganha a multidão."
But with enough luck and evolution we can pretend it's just another game.
As you rightly point out all our games eventually reach the same end.
--
There's always a better poem just out of reach.
Words create situations [link]
The roots of the future run deep [link]
--
Still, the whistle pig,
On Monday, bids adieu to his own kind.
--
Still, the whistle pig,
On Monday, bids adieu to his own kind.
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