The Self-Eaters Restaurant
I was going to meet Jim and John today
at the Self-Eaters Restaurant,
a trendy place to have a meal -
where else but in L.A.?
The technology is so advanced, Jim said,
as he welcomed me inside.
They cultivate your own meat in here,
if you like you can eat it raw!
Just supply a tissue sample
of a body-part that you like.
I particularly like my thigh, John said,
as I greeted him at the table.
Have you ever tasted my tongue, Jim said,
it's such a funny thing.
Or you can have my liver, John said,
a delicatesse I'd say!
I won't be having a thing today,
I heard myself say,
I've got a nasty bug, I said,
my stomach isn't feeling OK.
Does it grow fast, I asked,
while they were munching away.
It's not about quantity, Jim said,
it's all about consent!
Do you ever eat each other's meat,
I asked, while trying to smile.
That wouldn't work for me, Jim said,
he might withdraw consent next day.
That would make him into a cannibal,
John laughed, having a go at his brain.
We even got our own toilets in here,
the technology is so advanced!
Everything's recycled,
fluids back into food.
A bit of salt is added,
as collected in the gym.
John shaked a bag in front of me,
with "John's Salt" written on it,
he poured it into a cup of soup
that looked so very yellow.
I've got to go to the loo, I said,
as soon as they finished their meal.
Jim will take you to the john, John said,
we'll meet in Jim's gym afterwards.
I'll see John at Jim's gym, I thought,
as Jim took me past John's john,
and I vomited at the public loo
of the Self-Eaters Restaurant.
[ Posted on 7 July 2001 by Libertaria at
Poems at Topica
Featured at Poems at the Optionality Network ]
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