Yes, Chef

Kitchen poetry

Photo by Ahmed Zayan on Unsplash

Yes, Chef.

No, Chef.

Three-bags-motherfuckin’-full Chef.

Hold it down.

Knock it out.

Suck it up.

Sell it.

Sling it.

Fuck you.

Burnt it.

Fuck me.

Sideways and six ways from Sunday.

Today, tomorrow and for fuckin’ ever.

Forever heard

Forever behind

Forever sharp

Pirates, all.

Ragamuffin raunchy roustabouts

Pure vibrating balls of

Burnt flesh and cigarettes,

Soap and sani-buckets

Profanity keeps the sanity

Fresh(ish)

Long past its expiration date

Blades and blood

And sweat and tears

In a melting pot of naive hopes and abandoned dreams

The soup du jour is fucking pain

With a side of salty satisfaction