Where the cold things sit, the people at the ends of the loud shouting sticks gather and throw the metal tins at each other's heads. Watching from the edges of the compound and the edges of their thrones, they drink, they eat and they loom over the prospects. Afternoon for the morning and the cold hum of attacks line up frozen spices and hot sugary sweets.
Meals at the ready with trays and divisions and settings neatly away from the back of the room. Resting long in the warm, sweat trickles onto the food, served on plastic warped from time in the oven. Condiments and sweets beat nothing clear when the single drop adds the spark that sings the lyrics of inner flavour.
Sample mouthfuls of bite-sizes to snack on as more fools bind ties to look upon. Tight and to the neck made narrow, upsneak carves the score as the bodies lie fallow. Retribution comes on the same plate as distraction for consumption.
Written on Wednesday, 22 August 2007