Eight Shrimps and Two Cañas for Dinner and I’m Dead

let me tell you these shrimp were medium sized and boiled in olive oil and garlic two years after a relationship with a witch who boiled me alive and turned me from a frog into a wisp of smoke and finally into a shrimp shedding the shell of a man slowly beginning to remembering who he is there is the lightest wind of a Canary Island blowing at the blue table cloth pinned to the table unlit lights strung up over la rambla drooping and curved like a chute leading all the way down to the seaside too bad there’s terrible English pop music playing in the restaurant of this quiet little island I’ll tell you sometimes I wish I was dead and hanging like a light bulb that didn’t have to work tomorrow