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Ivars Balkits


An homage to the Comments section.

We sit down to anger as to table, breaking bread with our fists.  Legs collapse, plates crash, offal goes flying. Or, trembling, the legs hold, the knife grinds politely on the plate. An oppressive banquet, bitter but filling, but which can also leave us empty and cold.


Our appetite for it is not long lost. Breaking fast with a light snack, a quick bite, we might not feel famished. Better to gorge though, bloat, cheeks puffed out, sweat pouring, red-faced. Voice raised as we propose a curse. 


Admittedly the others' recipes are not to our taste. We can't stomach what they've dished out. Returning the favor we invite them over, offering to make them food...


for the worms. 

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