Psychotic stew

My brain is a vessel
holding the chopsuey of my thoughts
perpetually simmering, occaisonally boiling.
As I carried this vessel on my shoulders through the corridors of life,
banging against the shelves lining it,
causing stuff to fall from the shelves into the stew -
new, old, leftovers, rare, inherited ingredients
adding garnish to the soup of my soul.


I remember the day I banged my pitcher into yours,
we ended up spilling our gravies into each others bowls,
was fun.
We walked together through the passage,
exchanging more and more,
becoming one,
till both our stews looked and tasted and smelled the same.


And now half way through life,
as we look back - or into what we have got so far,
I feel proud of what we have become -
A pair of cannibals who secretly kill extremists, boil and eat their hearts and shit on their dead bodies.