Textures

Normal conversation is a main course,
One that rarely tantalises me,
And rarer still is it served with skill,
I find it an unappealing slop,
An insipid entrée,
The texture of the words grows unpalatable,
Rough and unforgiving,
Undercooked and shallow,

These dull strings of words,
They are not the juicy flesh of wagyu beef,
Nor the silky glide of spaghetti bolognese,
Not even the warming quaff of soup,
They do not entice,
Or enkindle,
Nor entertain,
I am not sated by that drivel,

Increasingly so,
The texture of normality is grist to me,
Absent of taste,
Mediocre chat bound for the toilet bowl,
But then again,
It has to be stated,
Perhaps it is my taste,
Such as it is.

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