Monday, January 03, 2005


Enjoying the sombre silence of a mildew morning after a sleepless someil.

Saturday, January 01, 2005


Soup to which I owe life
Of red and white floats
made from what i've eaten
Of which beats endless strife
A red river with many boats
To which you feast, living.

This, of course, is but the start,
After the base be added
This miso needs seasoning spices
To be stirred through with a heart
After all this is added
You discover a savoury world in a cart.

Just a friendly warning for your cooking
You may think something will taste
Wonderful, delectable, gourmet even
But too much salt is harder
Removed than added, impossible even
To destroy the taste of too much paste
When it turns into a violent stinging.

Don't think me crazy, a fool
Don't think banalities of this
Not just water and chopped carrots
Not conventional mixes heated
What I speak of runs in a bloody pool
Losing too much makes a hiss
It brings life and all it's merits
and feeds the one in which it's seated.

This soup is blood the creme of horror
And the spices if you're a wonder
Is all and none but mostly no other
Than substances of splender.