Restaurant

A restaurant
is the showroom
of a slaughterhouse,
where evolved carnivores
devour together dismembered,
thoroughly chopped animals
and laugh heartedly
while vowing love to each other
or kissing their carnivore children
or making plans of travelling
in their carnivore future,
on special
carnivore deals

A good restaurant
is one
where millions of butchered living forms,
hunted down and killed
by the human predators,
are served for delightful engorgement
on fancy, shiny plates
by highly acclaimed chefs,
who are mass murderers,
chief executioners,
dressed up in the colour
of innocence

Organically Chained

The Americans sent people to the Moon,
the Chinese fire the engines of their rockets now,
while the Russians take a break
to draft the plans for a family resort on Mars,
later on who knows whose turn is
to challenge the infinity of space?
Moon has become a favorite travel destination
for the almighty.

People make movies about people
travelling at light speed
through the sparse fabric of the universe,
through its defiled galaxies,
passing by the smaller stars like insignificant train stations
where nobody gets off, nobody gets on,
and when they encounter other forms of life,
the alien species,
they look disappointingly rough and rude,
and they’re ruthless and beastly,
some drink human blood and eat human flesh,
even if they are far more technologically advanced
and they don’t need buttons and dashboards on their machines,
they command them with thoughts
and with feelings,
while we, the old plain humans,
still remain the most accomplished race
in the universe,
the all six rolling evolution dice,
the supreme example of morality, wisdom and courage
in the Universe jungle,
the Romans of the outer space

The only thing, folks,
is that we’re organically chained to this huge carbon pot
called Earth,
we need to much sleep,
we need to eat cooked animal flesh,
we need to breathe the air exhaled by trees,
and we live the short lives
of the prairies rodents.
We’re just another form of grass,
of tree,
of fish,
of fly,
we’re just carbon and water
in a soup of carbon and water
that needs to remain in the crock,
and not spill through the space
We’re designed to live our lives
travelling light, travelling close
Inside the wonderful garden punctured with the waterfalls
of life and death,
inside and outside of us

We won’t ever reach another galaxy
but only with our thoughts.

Some say we’re doomed
to stay chained to our heaven,
to be forbidden to travel
to hell.
I say:
What’s wrong with that?

Road to Paradise

Most of the people think
there’s no paved way to paradise,
and some of them,
who can afford it,
like those Egyptian pharaohs,
pack up lots of luggage
to keep them comfortable,
while travelling to paradise.

But I just found out
that the road to paradise
is a two-way highway
and now the question is
not what you take with you
but what you bring back
when you return
from paradise.

In the end
I solved my terrible dilemma
by picking from the sand two tiny fragments
of dead corals
washed ashore
in one of those daily paradise storms
when it rains with suns
and snows with moons
and everyone grows a pair
of wind wings,
to travel free
from wonder to fairy tale

Island of Paradise

The people who live
on that island
located far away from the planet Earth I know
by driving daily on its highways,
in the country of Paradise,
should be exempted
from the wrath of the people’s justice:
for each crime a punishment.

The strong arm of the law shouldn’t be allowed
to touch them,
the divine justice shouldn’t apply in their case,
and they should take full advantage
of their special status
by building a life of crime
and immorality
and adultery
and swindling
and out in the open villainies.

Apparently these people
have been relocated right behind the gates
of heaven,
so there’s no Judgment Day coming for them,
they can do whatever they please
with no paradisiac or divine consequences
or even degraded level
of their afterlives.

Having people living on that island
also proves the point
that heaven is a touristic destination
with more than two millions of yearly visitors,
most of them coming from the evildoing mainland,
who are granted,
for an affordable cost,
a brief vacation in Paradise.

But they barely get used to the alleys of Heaven,
that they have to pack their bags
get crammed in the airplanes,
heading back
to their ordinary,
miserable lives.

Many of them want to take with them
a heavenly token, a small gift,
to prove to their neighbors,
and their co-workers,
and their school buddies,
that they have been in heaven,
bragging nonsensically
about splendors that cannot be
and deeds that cannot happen
when they’re going to show
resting in their very palms,
a glittery shell picked up on a beach,
out of the many heaven outposts
of the Island of Paradise.