The Insatiable Circle

The dish in his mind

 delicate as a lie you can’t take back. 

Blinded by his own vision, 

he orders what he wants, 

not what he needs. 

It’s the idea that matters — 

forget about waste, 

think taste,

 the look of the plate.

Hidden Rot

 "Oh fuck — who ordered this meat?" 

The question rings out; all eyes drop.

 What's a few days? 

The date's just a guide. 

Call it aged,

 bump up the price. 

A short stay in the freezer — 

erase this memory in ice.

That metallic tang, 

that bubbling in your gut —

 it's just the umami.

Repetition of Perfection

A plate is a canvas

Pure as untouched snow

But so easily spoiled with a careless stroke or thoughtless hand.

Pressure doesn’t make diamonds,

It makes smears and broken emulsions.

Start again, fire again,

We’re zero waste here—

Unless perfection is the cost

Master of service

But the pressure on the plate

doesn't come from within.

A voice slices across the kitchen —

In strides the lord and master,

speaking in the cold tongue of numbers.

"Pushing capacity tonight.

Smaller portions.

Faster plates.

Tight margins,

even tighter smiles."

And still —

eyes sharp as hunger,

squint at the plate,

want outweighing need,

wallets thinner than pride,

paying in disdain.

paying in disdain.

They bank their dissatisfaction,

let it fester and swell,

culturing resentment

like souring yoghurt,

thick with time,

ripe with rot —

like the "aged" meat on their plate.

Filtered Rage 

They cock their weapons —

 snap, snap, snap — photographic gunfire.

 “The price exceeds not just the portion, 

but the taste. 

No style. No substance. No soul.”

Waste.

Like it never left, 

the plate returns — 

careful plating

 mutilated

 by the careless prong of a fork.

“Too much,” they say,

 but not enough to satisfy. 

The bin, heavy with imperfection, 

a grave of failed intentions.

Hunger

The porter hauls it away, 

his stomach hollow with shift-long hunger,

 passing a man on the street 

who stares 

at the bin

 like it’s a window 

to a world he’ll never touch.

Paired Recipe:A dry-aged-style burger seared like your last nerve, with a sauce somewhere between umami and emotional burnout.

Built for those who serve others first and eat last — preferably standing, preferably cold.

Charred pickles optional. Existential crisis included.

(You won’t find the full recipe here — it’s holding a spot in a future project I hope you’ll be hungry for.)