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all roads lead

on sunday wearing one boot

I depart with spoon and fork

tied to the chains of slow food

rome is 7 hills of pasta on a plate








7 hills of pasta

splattered with blue cheese and blood

with fountains bolognese

with pesto aqueducts

with olive oil rivers

with mozzarella squares

with parmesan buildings

with garlic statues

with ancient forum of prosciutto

with asparagus columns

with tomato colosseum

with spanish steps of ham

with olive domes

of bacon cathedrals

rucola ricotta and ragù

with the vatican hallucinogenic venomous radioactive

mushroom in the center of rome

pasta tentacles crawl down the city roads

I walk the squares past columns and buildings

saint peter the temple of minerva the senate the forum and the pantheon

and spear all the cardinals like capers on the top of my fork

then I crunch loudly all the christian army

I chew bishops fathers popesses popes antichrists

and with a mouth of truth full of pasta

I whisper

this is a philosophy of nutrition

drink wine write bibles

and when there are no bread and circuses

eat rome

Posted by Yassen Vassilev on 3/18/13 | tags: poetry

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