Continuing where I left off
The Collaborator’s Canteen
In the collaborator’s canteen where I paid for five meals a week and ate two
Where Nurse Ratchet guarded warming trays using a ladle for a rifle
On Fridays Fish was served, unspecified marine species drowning in oppressing batter
Suffocating in saturated fat coffins slender ethereal spines freezing in edible setting concrete
And all this based on the myth that moons ago the world’s first revolutionary socialist fed thousands
With gilled martyrs, those who we’ll remember as the Galilee Five.
No-one specified whether it was line caught or whether they had been imported and in what conditions
Were they transported live with catfish to keep all that scalene scaled flesh supple or nubile?
Did they have a tick from the MSC, and if not were they discarded dorsal finless by Japanese whalers
Who were instructed by some higher power that when eating their mid slaughter sandwiches to only eat the bread and throw the filling away.
Nurse Ratchet couldn’t give a swimming fuck, lifting up my hair on the back of my head to tie a blindfold to spare the sight of her cocking the cooking implement.
It’s easy to feed a scad when all you give people is what they can handle rather than employing over-exaggerated marketing ploys; all you can eat, eat as much as you like, eat until there’s bile cascading down the front of your eyeballs as if you just opened your mouth when your mouth’s full of soup
I felt that if I wasn’t a carnivore I couldn’t support a family, a hunter-gatherer with a cave-wife constantly in biblical floods of tears
If I’d have asked Nurse Ratchet if they had any Salisbury, Sirloin or Chateaubriand on the go she’d have blown me then and there, like opening my fly would leak link after link of kielbasa sausage
And try not to misunderstand me because I’d kill for a steak. It’s just that I’m not sure whether to kill the bovine in which the steak resides to qualify myself for meateaterdom or the guy stupid enough to get between me and a steak.
With excess comes in simpler terms retardedness. Spell-check it if you please but put even simpler I don’t boule about the place fucking everything in sight because
a) I’d be that strange person at parties who upon looking at a girl about whom he is discussing with a fellow party goer , midway through conversation as casual as the sex he will no doubt describe that he tapped ‘that’
And b) I would ruin the sexual expectations of everyone involved with my deplorable, odious love-making technique.
Consumers have rarely cared about the medium in which they operate but if foods the operation and the farmer is the scalpel it helps if its sharp and at hand not blunted by frustrated sebaceous sessions and currently embroiled in a commute/import from somewhere they still know how to grow the things we enjoy to consume but couldn’t be bothered how to re-learn how.