Tendrils crusted in grit assail my palate. Begotten of the sea, yet containing the essence of a carnival. Fried and without end. At once I feel refined and base, but melancholy grips me when I spy the dressings within which this dismembered cephalopod is to dip. A mixture resembling coagulated plasma, and the other… spicy milk? A crème, surprisingly smooth but savory. This contradictory breach of decorum and smattering of flavors inspires terror within my heart of hearts. Hope absconds from this place
If I survive, I will never shake the unmitigated horror. The layers: slick, flesh-colored slices… of what? I am forever unsure. Tiers of bloody stripes, as my tears soon will be. Madness controls my mouth as forkfuls of stodgy substance and sludge slide down my esophagus. Death seems certain.
Giant Cheese-Stuffed Shells
Nautilus shapes—mere facades—taunt me, oozing a nutty concoction so vile. Are they large? Or small? My eyes refuse to betray their size. The carapaces dwarf me with garnishes crunchy and uncouth. They are evil unclothed and glutted with the curdled maiden milk of many.
I am filled with fear. Pullet flesh, seared to white, cast like bronze within a crunchy coat. But no, that alone is not enough—this floundering mass of tender meat slides around in a cardinal slurry alongside glutinous tentacles too many to enumerate; such that they confound the senses and simultaneously seduce my bravery to dread. I am left muttering to myself a mantra of origin unknown, “When you’re here… when you’re here… you are… family?”
A homogeneity characterized its flaxen cast. Bubbling sacks of slime upon a platter scorching. Beware! Doused in the pureed remains of a dozen orbic fruits, I feel my breath quicken and hands tremble as I pen its likeness as well as I might. My own mind conspires against me when presented with this frightful entrée. To dine? Or will my own visage mirror its sickly jaundice? I have touched with too much haste the vessel of Hades, a burn be my meal.
The Tour of Italy
A terse presentation of memories, three to be precise. A chicken, but unclucking. A plate of worms, wriggling in saucy terror. And then, horror unbounded, a cube of entombed layers coated in a crimson, comestible smear. Dreams fleeting and reborn, of monoliths—Pisa—floating mid-air and dripping gruel. A gurgling voice emerged from the deep, a chaos that did not speak a mortal tongue, a promise emitted: “Unlimahtated brrrrurdstihks!”
Sweet, subtle, and bitter all at once upon my lips. My throat tightens at the sensation, “Surely this is erroneous?” I quake. How can a concoction both allure and despair me with such synchronicity? My stomach churns against the lactose as enzymes fret, a jolt of vitality causes my lethargy to flee, from where? A caffeinated cause? Though on the surface a horrid delight, my lugubrious nature holds firm. I shall surely die.
Red Blend Porta Vita
Swirling currents of terrible Burgundy press a cloud down upon me, a fog beyond comprehension that ever muddles and befuddles my cogitation. I am unlaced after a mere cup, uncorked after a bottle. Life swims before me though I stand on dry land—or so I thought! The abyss beckons to me and I am like to answer. Notes of tree bark.