"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.
possessed by tim burton, written by him too
