By Tyson Bley
Wowed by the sudden loss of relevance
of my werewolf legs, the kind with the knee
kinked backwards, giving you huge loping steps –
slumped, dismally, at the restaurant table and
wowed by the waitress’s sickening abuse of power –
lightly salted: the oil leak I’m forced
and consent to eat, with 80s hair and vibrating
blinking brooch on wingtipped lapel, still very much slumped,
however, here, at the table. Dolorously.
And, yeah … feeling like I’ve been pushed down a spiral staircase,
a strange April fools victim of
the teleporting device landing me smack – some time prior –
in the middle of a karaoke contest: having stood
there with my werewolf legs trying not to stutter
or swallow the pufferfish mic. Ugh.
And that’s part of why I’m so down
now, I guess … and I only thank the teleporting
device that it had the humanity to at least
shoot me through the dried oatmeal ether
into this restaurant, here, where the waitress is
unkind and dragoons patrons into
doing things against their will, but people
who do things against their will willingly
still, in a manner of speaking, consent, no?
Give their consent?
Or am I sounding desperate? Have I managed
to swallow the slightly salted oilslick, though? Wow. That’s wowful.
It’s obvious this waitress has put Occam’s razor
to the standard pop show formula, the product –
i.e. a sudoku-inspired tampon – deriving from the fact,
perhaps, that she’s half Japanese, the code to a cruel
combination padlock around my hairy ankles displaying in asterisks
on the LCD panel embedded in her chest. Which is … wow.