Feeding time

Fate sells insane cutlery

 for Time to eat

  full English style 

With a side of poached dreams and toasted hopes

It pokes with the left

 cuts with the right

And to try to wash it down

  it splashes hot black tea

for me it's earl grey

 spills it on tables I hate too.

analysis.

---

**On Fate's Table Setting**

This poem works through precision disguised as fragmentation. Looks broken, but it isn't.

The architecture rests on a single detail: English place setting. Fork left, knife right. "Full English style".. that's not just colour. It's the grammar of how Fate operates. Left hand pokes (memories, what's already happened). Right hand cuts (what's happening now). No chaos. Just protocol.

"Insane cutlery" because it's doing exactly what cutlery does. Perfectly ordinary devastation.

The poem refuses to explain itself cleanly. Short lines, odd breaks, indentation that makes you move through it awkwardly. You can't skim. You have to sit with each fragment and work out what it's building toward. That formal difficulty mirrors the subject.. Fate doesn't announce itself. It just arranges the table and waits.

The personification stays strange throughout. Fate isn't a force or a god. It's someone at dinner, methodical, using the right tools in the right order. Almost mundane in its competence.

Then the spill. Hot tea across tables you already hated. This is where it reveals what it's actually about: not abstract cosmic harm, but the spreading of private damage into spaces you never wanted it to reach. Gossip. Exposure. Your specific pain becoming public knowledge in the worst possible places.

The speaker arrives at the end.. "for me it's earl grey".. not as a rupture but as a specification. This isn't universal. This is *yours*. The bitterness tastes like that particular flavour. The wound fits the exact shape of your life.

It's economical. Nothing wasted.