Our First Date, Our Last Date

It’s a long one today, taken from my up and coming EP, The Feast & The Beast. I’ll be doing a test performance in a couple of days time, solo (… acoustic?), for a private viewing. I’m quite excited to see if it works. For now, you’ll just have to read it. I’ll post the track soon!
This piece is called…

Our First Date, Our Last Date

She  wore  black  to  the  restaurant.  Infinite  black.  She  takes  the  menu  first.  She orders  cow  and  pig  and  bird  and  greens  and  reds  and  liquids,  entrees  and  mains and  desserts  and  after  dinner  mints  and  in-betweens.

And  I  say,  “Just  a  sticky  date  pudding  thanks.”

And  she’s  like,  “Really?  Is  that  all?  Because  you  can  have  some  of  mine,  I’ll  pay, it’s  fine,  mine  is  yours  and  what’s  yours  is mine.”

And  I  say,  “No  really,  just  a  sticky  date  pudding  thanks.”

And   she’s   like,   “No,   you’ll   have   something   good,   something   great,   something healthy,  something  filling,  something colourful,  something  thrilling”

And  I  say,  “No,  just  a  sticky  date  pudding  thanks.”

And  she’s  like,  “What  are  you,  10  years  old?  You  can’t  have  sticky  date  pudding  at a  time  like  this!  You’re  supposed  to impress  me  and  wine  and  dine  me!”

And  I  say,  “No,  just  a  sticky  date  pudding  thanks.”

The  waiter  arrives  and  he  covers  the  table  in  all  of  my  date’s  crap.

And  she  puts  chicken  on  my  plate,  steak  on  my  dish,  sets  up  the  dips,  cracks  open the  crab,  slices  the  bread  into  equal amounts,  pours  wine,  unfolds  our  napkins, reorganises  my  cutlery,  excuses  herself  politely  before  asking  if  I  would  like  to  try  some  of  her  pastrami.

And  I  say,  “I’ll  just  have  the  sticky  date  pudding  thanks.”

And  she’s  like  “Come  on!  Do  something,  be  something,  want something!”

And  I  say,  “Really,  I  just  want  a  sticky  date  pudding  thanks.”

And  she’s  like  “No  seriously,  go  fuck  yourself,  you  twat…  eat  shit,  and  don’t  you dare  call  me  back”

And  she  rips  up  the  tablecloth,  the  food  falls  to  the  floor,  the  quail  manages  to slip  and  slide  all  the  way  to  the  door  (leaving  a  trail  of  poop-stain  coloured  gravy was  the  last  of  it  we  saw),  and  the  turkey  shat  out  its  stuffing  as  my  date’s  black heel  pierced  its  breast,  the  eggs  all  prayed  to  be  put  back  in  their  nest,  and  the duck  flew  west  (because  it  wasn’t  winter  yet).

The  steak  is  stuck  to  the  roof,  the  lamb  is  lost  and  aloof,  the  ribs  are  cracked  and broken,  the  veal  has  been  set  alight and now  it’s  smokin’,  she  flattens  the  salami and  performs  origami,  the  spam  is  binned  along  with  its  tin,  the  T-bone  is  beaten til  it’s  more  tender  than  its  ever  been.

She  rockets  the  rocket  and  the  waiter  doesn’t  stop  it,  she  strangely  leaves  the lettuce   but   spits   on   the   variety   of   fettas,   she   stepped   on   the   vinegar   which somehow   cured   her   tinea,   and   we   won’t   see   the   tomato   til   tomorrow,   or   the potato  til  2012.

She  pours  the  red  wine  on  the  white  carpet  and  the  white  wine  on  the  red  walls and  sparkling  in  the  fish  tank  and  the  lemonade  on  the  candy  bank,  she  left  the water  alone,  but  considered  taking  a  sip  because  she  was  running  out  of  breath and  needed  all  she  could  before  she  really  ran  amok

For  she  was  now  a  Mack  truck,  and  she  blew  through  the  walls,  a  trail  of  falling debris  in  her  wake,  I  keep  my  eyes  on  my  sticky  date  cake.

Her  surf  and  turf  take  a  trip  through  the  window  glass,  half  landing  in  water  the other  in  grass,  while  the  lobster  lands  back  in  its  boiling  bath,  its  brothers  in  a nearby  tank  had  to  laugh,  they’ve  come  to  accept  their  life  could  never  last,  the squid   however   had   an   inkling   he’d   survive  being   cooked   and   digested   and spliced  with  knives,  to  his  surprise  met  his  demise,  if  he  could  he’d  scream  out  “Don’t  believe  the  lies!”,  while  both  the  prawns  and  the  shrimp  just  watched  on with  their  beady  little  eyes,  or  perhaps  it  was  just  the  latter?  Whichever,  they were  both  on  the  platter  before  it  was  used  as  a  splatter  for  the  fish  batter.

She   punched   the   waiter,   knifed   the   chef,   forked   the   owner,   and   spooned   a random  guy,  poured  beans  on  a  woman  wearing  what  looked  like  the  skin  of  a mule,  and  then  she  expertly  side  kicked  the  2  year  old  child  off  its  high  stool

Amongst  all  of  the  destruction,  I  can’t  resist,  and  I  slowly  reach  for  my  fork,  I  let  it sink   into   the   dark   sponge,   through   the   soup   sauce,   I   delicately   place   the  toffee  topping  on  my  tongue  and  let  it  dribble  in  my  mouth,  I  suck  on  it,  close  my  eyes  and  swallow  twice

She  stops.  Sits  down  calmly  and  says  “Actually…  that  smells  rather  nice.  May  I please  have  a  bite?”

– Scott Sandwich
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