Binge, Then Purge Poem by metamorphhh (aka jim crawford)

Binge, Then Purge



Up one aisle and down the other,
sampling each product with a lickpenny's economy.
It doesn't grow on trees, you know.
Or so they tell me.
I've a hankering for dialectic,
though I always avoid the regional colloquies
(they give me gas) .
That reminds me!
I really should head over to the frozen causeries section
and pick up some tete-a-tetes
before my coupons expire.

On the way, I pass the day-old fabler's rack,
thoroughly picked over, I lament.
All's left are a few old loaves of fuzzy reminiscences,
already sporting muzzy little pulpits of mawkish anecdotes.
I turn up the volume on my inner dialogue,
squirt around the always tempting confabulation display case
with my lapper in my ears-
we are what we attend, after all.
Or, so they tell me.
Then, suddenly, I find myself nose-to-nose with the samples lady,
hawking no less that FIVE tribes of calumy,
along with a medley of dainty finger-points
marinated in their own I-told-you-so.
Needless to say, I've been here all afternoon.

Never go shopping when you're hungry.

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