A Jackson Pollock painting walks into the diner. It’s jarring in its chaos and comforting
in its method. Senses slowly drip into sharp focus like an overloaded coffee maker with
cheap green beans and no palm civet in sight.
The eggs are surrealistic and beg the adornment of art and artefact. The plate is chipped
and dipped in olive oil from sustainable farms in the east.
It’s all an act of persuasion to belie fears and soothe jittery nerves shot up with too
much strong coffee and no sugar.
Give me a kiss, he tells her.
She removes her eyeteeth and her lips are unicorn breath.
Let’s touch so my colours bleed into you and your spices mix into me.
A painting walks out. A Modigliani nude, it hangs askew in a brown study.