Short Fiction

the Pringle knows not 'no'
it doesn't dwell on reason
to eat just one in some locales
is classified as treason


the Pringle knows not 'subtle'
its shape is built for sexing
your stomach, through the tongue and mouth
with flavoured maltodextrin


the Pringle knows not 'sparing'
it demands to be demolished
in starchy stacks of fifty high
till dieting is abolished


the Pringle knows not 'friendship'
its a dehydrated potato
of reconstituted wheat starch
to your Clouseau, it is Cato

the Pringle knows not 'ulcer'
it scoffs at indigestion
with yeast and monoglycerides
and the power of suggestion

the Pringle knows not 'mercy'
or rehab, or remission
a whole that's greater than its parts
defines the word 'addiction'