06 Nov


Now I'll tell of the experience, making oat groats at 1 AM:
Sleepless as a vampire, wander into the kitchen
thinking of some num-num unneeded but yearned for

I used to grab an ice cream, cookies, Monster drinks full
of strange laboratory chemicals that would churn
incessantly in my gut all night 
through a fevered
fitful sleep tortured with Hieronymus Bosch
visuals with stabbing pitchforks in my ample belly

Nightly, I would find myself retching, head
in bowl re-tasting everything my foolishness
told me earlier to ingest. 
Then swallowing mouthfuls
of bicarbonate of soda for the big aromatic burp.

But now, oat groats ground in my coffee grinder
and boiled in my rice cooker until a smooth gruel,
add a smidgen of honey, and voila!

certainly not as provocative as my former midnight
snacks, but the answer to a restful snooze. 

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Posted by on November 6, 2021 in Poetry


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