Violent Tendencies To The Unfaithful

Pounding the spices made me think of

you and how, if I ever see you again,

I'd enjoy pounding you to pieces

myself.

There is something almost nice -

almost therapeutic about this

repetitive action that, if had

your face superimposed upon it,

would be almost heavenly.

Because there is inexpressible joy

in wielding the stone grinder and

popping the juicy shallots

with a slam, quite like popping your

eyeballs to see the membrane break open

and whatever juices inside an eyeball

flow out. Then pound, pound, pound

and watch as the membrane widens

until it finally

breaks

into a soft smooth pulp. There is

unspeakable happiness in witnessing

the meeting of the grinder with the

candle-nut, quite like opening the mysteries

of your head with stone in hand.

The hard skull resists at first, then slowly

succumbs to the rhythmic, seductive

beat and cracks to reveal the pink insides

that, under the grinder, will turn to

mush with many satisfying squishes

and the blood will splatter all over

face and hands and clothes.

The more rubbery organs of yours I liken to

the dried shrimp. It is unyielding, but with

strength and persistence it will surrender,

and from a whole it will disintegrate

to tiny microscopic dots. Funny -

exactly like how you broke my heart.

And so it comes full circle:

what is done unto me

is done unto you,

the unfaithful.