The Soylent Fail

in plain view of mum’s cherry pie
i shopped knock-off soylent from my iphone.

the real deal took six months to deliver
and impatient for this powder,

i swallowed the click-bait whole,
tap-paid in euros at the kitchen table.

a legit website is enough to calm
the nerves of a first-time deep-webber,

but i have stalked facebook late at night and
know the sight of a guinea pig, which

as the light pushed my blinds open,
it dawned on me i had become.

the syncopated ring of an incoming skype
ticked the delivery off my to-do list,

but eyes stuck to the shrink-wrap, the label’s type
made me pause before swallowing:

is ‘tahoma’ the font of choice for fitspo hype
or murder by mail-order?

i hold that synthetic banana
should carry a trigger warning.

hungover, there’s nothing better
to curdle stomach matter,

than shaken with tap water,
a chemical talc warm in plastic.

the unopened sachets watch over my kitchen,
gumlessly chewing all that’s convivial.

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