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.