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Lobsters and Poems: The End by cdangel82 on 12-10-2007
I discovered a certain calm in my compulsions. After my main meal of two grapes, and maybe one almond, I'd get to writing. As Plath says, “The blood jet is poetry and there is no stopping it.”
"...the empty beak/the liver sleep." I think I'm on to something...
This is the worst poetry I've ever seen.
In the end, poetry was the only thing keeping me from sticking my head into an oven. It forced me to stare deep into myself and realize that I was starving. I braced myself for some weight gain, and all the stupid comments other people were bound to make.
Hmm. I think we could use a burger and fries.
You know, I've missed you.
Soon after I reconciled my relationship with food, life itself seemed brigther. I graduated and moved to New York City, where like millions of other idiots, I'd decided to become a writer.
Lobster? I'll take three!
Mademoiselle, might I say you are looking very... healthy.
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