Cooking With Wine (W/ amandahaswords)

by Steven J. Serafiani

The following is a collaboration with Amanda from She is a wonderful poet, writer, photographer and our styles mesh nicely. I wrote the 1st and 3rd stanzas and she wrote the 2nd and 4th. Check out her page, you will not be disappointed and be on the look out for future collaborations with her!

I haven’t eaten in awhile,
the Indian leftovers in the fridge penicillin by now,
I just wants fonts and a four month old grigio,
to sit in my moonlit husk,
mourn my crestfallen emotions,
obits and toasts,
fingers sowing their wild oats,

my burdens trickling out through similes
and attempts at witty phrasing,
the hands on the wall tell me it’s well past time to turn in,
but my schizophrenic heart lets nothing go according to plan,
finger tips meandering over the keys,
like washing weeks worth of molding pots and pans,
I’ll rinse myself of this lamenting,
but I’ll never quite reach clean,
no matter how I scrub,
an oily residue clings,

feel as though I wear a cloak of fairy tales,
wrong word,
bathed in soot and as bland as the tapioca root,
something has thickened inside,
cause I used to be happy,
fuck, maybe that’s a myth too,
I’ve worn this masquerade mask ever since that ball that I didn’t attend,
have become a social satirist sauteed and seasoned in a solitary pan,
scribbling alliterations in black crayon,

thinking if I could fool my hand I’d fool the page,
change the picture,
rearrange the stage,
happily ever after like smooth Malbec,
I suppose that’s not my story,
not this time,
if I could fool the world I could fool my mind,
this scene is played out for every being,
we are all victims and we all are destined to cheap chocolate wine,
we drink though it burns our throats,
trying to savor elements made to forget,
tongues searching for an ingredient to remember,
without an aftertaste of regret,
but this isn’t humanities poem,
this is my woeful, wine drenched ode.