Ceci n’est pas une piece of cake
by Vero Lecocq
He was a bold man who first ate an oyster.
– Jonathan Swift
In the midst of the millions
of synaptic stimuli
that percolate past
your neuronal networks
every second,
every minute,
every hour,
every day,
in your waking
and your sleeping
and your drifting in between,
has one of them ever been
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
…about your food?
Example:
Imagine.
Og see squirrel.
Og kill squirrel.
Og rip squirrel flesh,
bursting and bruising,
dripping and oozing,
off of squirrel bones
that crack and cackle
as the marrow drips out.
Og stick flesh in flames.
Og watch flesh turn brown,
brown like rot and disease.
Og place hot, rot, squirrel flesh
In face-hole.
Og is pleased.
Flesh is good!
…
Do you follow?
The illustration, I mean.
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
Full disclosure, now:
I’m an enthusiastic herbivore.
But, I think,
without bias,
I might say
that even habitual
meat-munchers
will permit my position:
How odd!
What possessed him?
Was it desperation?
Or perhaps a Neolithic dare?
Oh, and we,
we vegetarians,
we are equally to blame!
Mushrooms?
And alcohol?
Cheese, for goodness’ sake!
And, really, pickled anything:
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
Think of this the next time you are offered crudités.
And now.
Imagine.
Something…
tamer.
More sensible.
Familiar.
And comprehensible.
Comforting.
Delicious.
In a word,
imagine:
CAKE.
And imagine
you are me
and you are offered
CAKE.
And the only thing
that runs through your mind
is
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
For to me,
this is no piece of cake.
Or, at least, it is inedible.
Yes.
Inedible, I say.
I do not say that it tastes foul.
I say it is inedible
as turpentine
is unfit to drink.
And I watch,
in horror,
as my friend
introduces it
to her
oral orifice.
Permit my position:
How odd!
What possessed her?
To me,
this is not cake.
Or, if it is, then cake
is DEATH.
That is what I see.
Baked to perfection,
prettily frosted
DEATH
on a napkin
with
DEATH
sprinkles
and ice-DEATH.
I do not choose not to eat it,
not any more than I
choose
to keep my limbs intact.
There is no choice.
There is need.
Do you follow?
The illustration, I mean.
This has been life
for me.
Ah!
But lest you think
it was a tame demon
that trotted out
for birthdays
and extravagant desserts,
Allow me to assure you:
I thought this way
when offered
FUCKING VEGETABLES.
…
Did I say vegetables?
I meant DEATH.
Death,
for me,
came processed and pre-packaged,
lovingly prepared,
or freshly produced from the Earth.
Yes, Mr. Swift.
he was a bold man who first ate an oyster.
And she is bold,
and he is bold,
who first says,
“Yes, Doctor. I will eat the death.”
by Vero Lecocq
He was a bold man who first ate an oyster.
– Jonathan Swift
In the midst of the millions
of synaptic stimuli
that percolate past
your neuronal networks
every second,
every minute,
every hour,
every day,
in your waking
and your sleeping
and your drifting in between,
has one of them ever been
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
…about your food?
Example:
Imagine.
Og see squirrel.
Og kill squirrel.
Og rip squirrel flesh,
bursting and bruising,
dripping and oozing,
off of squirrel bones
that crack and cackle
as the marrow drips out.
Og stick flesh in flames.
Og watch flesh turn brown,
brown like rot and disease.
Og place hot, rot, squirrel flesh
In face-hole.
Og is pleased.
Flesh is good!
…
Do you follow?
The illustration, I mean.
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
Full disclosure, now:
I’m an enthusiastic herbivore.
But, I think,
without bias,
I might say
that even habitual
meat-munchers
will permit my position:
How odd!
What possessed him?
Was it desperation?
Or perhaps a Neolithic dare?
Oh, and we,
we vegetarians,
we are equally to blame!
Mushrooms?
And alcohol?
Cheese, for goodness’ sake!
And, really, pickled anything:
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
Think of this the next time you are offered crudités.
And now.
Imagine.
Something…
tamer.
More sensible.
Familiar.
And comprehensible.
Comforting.
Delicious.
In a word,
imagine:
CAKE.
And imagine
you are me
and you are offered
CAKE.
And the only thing
that runs through your mind
is
WHY
or
WHAT
or
HOW
?!
For to me,
this is no piece of cake.
Or, at least, it is inedible.
Yes.
Inedible, I say.
I do not say that it tastes foul.
I say it is inedible
as turpentine
is unfit to drink.
And I watch,
in horror,
as my friend
introduces it
to her
oral orifice.
Permit my position:
How odd!
What possessed her?
To me,
this is not cake.
Or, if it is, then cake
is DEATH.
That is what I see.
Baked to perfection,
prettily frosted
DEATH
on a napkin
with
DEATH
sprinkles
and ice-DEATH.
I do not choose not to eat it,
not any more than I
choose
to keep my limbs intact.
There is no choice.
There is need.
Do you follow?
The illustration, I mean.
This has been life
for me.
Ah!
But lest you think
it was a tame demon
that trotted out
for birthdays
and extravagant desserts,
Allow me to assure you:
I thought this way
when offered
FUCKING VEGETABLES.
…
Did I say vegetables?
I meant DEATH.
Death,
for me,
came processed and pre-packaged,
lovingly prepared,
or freshly produced from the Earth.
Yes, Mr. Swift.
he was a bold man who first ate an oyster.
And she is bold,
and he is bold,
who first says,
“Yes, Doctor. I will eat the death.”