"there's this special restaurant
they say who goes in, never comes back out the same
they make you dishes and desserts, based on what you seem,
what they feel,
and how they'd like for you to feel

would you like to join me, tonight?
as we test out whatever theories,
and whether they are—indeed?"


                                                 ­                                         ingredient list:

                                                         ­   pixxeleted hearts, finely chopped
                                                         ­    candied pop-tarts, for garnishing
                                                      ­               hazelnut-dipped muscle bits
                                                            ­                   chocolate-washed eyes
                         curls that give off vanilla, coffee, and something floral
                                                          ­                       dead black butterflies
                                                     ­        beaded bracelets, aside in plating
                                   slabs of skin, bones to replace broth and chicken
                                                         ­            shared oxygen for the fumes
                                                         cut-out windpipe, as the emulsifier
                                                      ­   figurines of the coral, teetered cores
                                                           ­          bruised black-and-blue tints
                                                           ­                moths burnt by the flame
                                                           ­                        windchime’s whines
                                              the hands that held each other previously
                           the words that carved their way into lives, in fantasy

                                    [and anything else that reaches up to the mark,
                                                                ­                             ***** privacy.]


"look at the reviews!"

[candlelit faces, captured in photos
to be put upon the cake
made up with retched-up echoes
the expressions do look kind of terrifying.]

“perhaps it’s the mystery, or the thrill of what it really is like?”


                 the basics of delicacies to be cooked this way: the recipe

                                      picture the perfect occasion, the right memory
     turn it haunting, daunting, or how it could have turned out to be

[the cynical monster—the one who holds the ladle
they can’t be happy in someone’s happy
not just ’cause they’re jealous
so they make up what they’d like for them to be
their closest, the ones they invited to their own party

oh, we’re going off track—back to the dial]

                                                     turn up the burner, the highest flame
                                                  cook two: the main course and the side

                              start with the ingredients, the softer ones go at last
                                       take hold of what needs to be soaked, melted
                                                          ­     put in the oven, baked just right
                                        sizzled in the oil, fried until it turns out right
                                  simmer the sauce, the right red from their blood
                            cook it until it turns a darker shade, a bit too ******
                                                          ­            nothing raw, nothing funny

                                                          ­                the music is their screams
                                focus if they seem even a bit too excited or cheery
                                                          ­                      take it away, take it all
                                                       leave behind the hollow, the shallow
                                                         ­                                of what once was

[but they bleed on the floor,
by the table, they cry for redemption, for revival
does anyone hear them at all?
what do you cook, so focused—
as if you see nothing else?]


"would you like to see the menu?"

                                    "give us your specials"

"you are our specials
wait while we alert the masters"


                                                     ­                                           the menu:
                                                          ­                 appetizer...who you were
                                                            ­        mains...what you’ve become
                             dessert...all that happy, garnished with the evil eye
        souvenirs...dolls of you, protected by the curse of michelin now

                                                            ­                         we hope you like it!

"to keep the experience memorable
we’ve got a souvenir for you:
come visit us the next time too!"

[present, packed perfect—
two dolls resembling what existed
muscles to replace cotton
stitching the doll at seams with veins and nerves]


                                             [at the bottom of the menu, the line reads:]

                                                        ­            if love’s a dessert in making
                                                          ­     the contrary, whatever dark it is
                                            from the one who carries this murk against
                                                         ­                     ruthless, striving to aim
                                                             ­    at whoever seems to have it all
                                                      they have turned it into a rotten dish,
                                                                ­                 dried and shriveling.