The joy of Tripe

Poptart Poem

There is the creeping horror
of a soft-traitor’s smile
as fingers relinquish one box
and reach for another.

The heart-rending foil crinkling.

The lie:

Warm, fruity goodness!
(don’t believe it)

(This is a sadist’s dream concoction: The entrails of strawberries
stomped and desecrated by cheaply processed
corn sweetener.
The tomb, the catacomb of this horror,
an inviting, golden brown pocket-
derives it’s pallor from
highly processed flour, and some variation on a theme
of shortening. It is a starch nugget,
a small death that will cling to the rasping lungs,
mold itself to the dense, wet cave of
lipid build-up already enacted,
closing off lifeblood
from the hungry, howling heart.)

Do not discredit the valor of oatmeal!
Bypass the bright, deceptive font! Do not believe!

Rage, rage against the ambush of nutrition!

Oh. Well… fine, eat it then…
and heave.

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3 thoughts on “The joy of Tripe

  1. I love this! Praise be to “a soft-traitor’s smile”and “a small death that will cling to the rasping lungs”. I loved the entire second stanza wrapped in parenthesis, as though written as after-thought or embarrased realization… really a fun romp! Thanks… but this hardly qualifies as tripe, IMHO.

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