Potluck
︎︎︎ Mark Marlow
︎ Nov 8, 2026
Bitter breeds of a styrofoam sky
Rainbows petaled in gasoline
Thanks for the kindness of other men’s wives
Making dinner, I mean
Pyramid jagging of tortilla triangles,
Crimson salsa, blood-light melon,
Cardinal’s robe and Caesar’s sash,
Which falls on and fell on eternity’s felon.
No toga for me but a novelty napkin.
Those who like salads work hard on their salads,
Picking and plucking and putting the leaves
And artfully sprigging with blushes of color
The vegetable fibers so good for digestion,
The vinaigrette spritzing in schizoid directions.
Petite little plate, oh, you go by my fork.
Steak! Ribeye! Blackened and sanguine,
Languid majestic in red-oozing rest,
It’s the best. With my knife’s teeth I saw thin strips.
Close eyes, loll head, mystic enraptured,
My compliments to the chef, he’s the best.
And the fat goes first for it melts and implodes on the tongue.
Must be ate in the first frenzied flash or it curdles and gags.
Night pours in. Madeline’s doing the dishes,
Her strangler’s hands, stack dwindling,
I imagine her processing Polacks with Vasya Blokhin.
The women are working so here I am yapping of war crimes.
Tommy is asking the AI re: Seven-Kill Stele.
Lily is up for a laugh and she speaks Mandarin,
And so, she leads a toast:
“To innumerable good things, that Heaven brings forth for our nurture.”
Liam is single. He thinks:
“Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill.”
Rainbows petaled in gasoline
Thanks for the kindness of other men’s wives
Making dinner, I mean
Pyramid jagging of tortilla triangles,
Crimson salsa, blood-light melon,
Cardinal’s robe and Caesar’s sash,
Which falls on and fell on eternity’s felon.
No toga for me but a novelty napkin.
Those who like salads work hard on their salads,
Picking and plucking and putting the leaves
And artfully sprigging with blushes of color
The vegetable fibers so good for digestion,
The vinaigrette spritzing in schizoid directions.
Petite little plate, oh, you go by my fork.
Steak! Ribeye! Blackened and sanguine,
Languid majestic in red-oozing rest,
It’s the best. With my knife’s teeth I saw thin strips.
Close eyes, loll head, mystic enraptured,
My compliments to the chef, he’s the best.
And the fat goes first for it melts and implodes on the tongue.
Must be ate in the first frenzied flash or it curdles and gags.
Night pours in. Madeline’s doing the dishes,
Her strangler’s hands, stack dwindling,
I imagine her processing Polacks with Vasya Blokhin.
The women are working so here I am yapping of war crimes.
Tommy is asking the AI re: Seven-Kill Stele.
Lily is up for a laugh and she speaks Mandarin,
And so, she leads a toast:
“To innumerable good things, that Heaven brings forth for our nurture.”
Liam is single. He thinks:
“Kill kill kill kill kill kill kill.”
Mark Marlow writes from New York City and other places.