This Snickers Bar

Isaac Hollander McCreery, 5 August 2016

This is not food.
It’s an engineered gustatory experience.

Crinkle, crinkle, tear-slip,
Flutter, flutter, flutter,
Gnaw, pull, slurp, Chew: chick, chulk, chug, chlog, shlock, smock, smack, shush, Gulp.

Sweet, creamy, slight acidity
Balanced with crunch and fluff.

See, but I can’t help but think,
That that’s what I love so much about the food you make:
It’s edible creativity, edible human spirit, edible love.
No two meals are the same,
Not even close.

This? This is Plasticine, chemically fused and bathed in fossil fuels,
Made for me, for all of us,
But not the way you make food for me, for all of us.
This is conversion of knowledge to power;
Exploitation incarnate.
There is no human spirit in this shit
Is there?

But the sugar goes to my head, I know, And I start to pulse.

Where does art end and engineering begin?
Where does creativity end and obsession begin?

Where does tradition end and science begin?
Where does appreciation end and consumption begin?

Where does domestication end and domination begin?
Where does humanity end and capitalism begin?

Where does perfection end and optimization begin?
Where does love end and exploitation begin?

What is the difference, really,
Between your plum cake and this Snickers bar?

I inhale and I swallow,
My consumption is bathed in spectral tones.
I eat
Terror-soaked solidarity for breakfast,
Love for lunch with a side of death, and
Destruction and righteous recreation for dinner.
For dessert I have suffering and joy,
And after it all, I have a cup of colonialism with a dash of art.

Thank God the SPD won that Battle, right?
So I could get my coffee fix for cheap.
I take no sadistic pleasure in it,
I promise,
But I hold no delusions, either.
There is no purity here, Nor damnation.

Only ambiguity.