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there was a man
being a seducer of things
whose impotent
immaturish looks
bore him no ill fate.
who wore a tailored suit
and gloves
and motioned twice
a day
for his food to be
brought over.

once
seated at a restaurant
he snuck into the
kitchen
his strategies were
many.
his timing perfect.
his tiny imperial pocket book
of atrocities
detailing every
movement –

to watch the potatoes
marauding in their
bathing suits
their vile companion skins
a glow
glazed in the finest almond
oil.
palms up
their feet resting
like spikes on the counter.

to watch the onions
doing their rudimentary
sizzle
on the arbour
the corrupter of men’s
stomachs.

to watch every
last mussel being drawn
from the
sediment.

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