Two poets sat adjacent to one another, silently eating their dinner.
The prosateur glanced up, munching with his waxen face, jowels quivering with each successive gnash of his molars.
The pragmatist concentrated firmly on his own plate, taking great care not to clench his fists too tightly for fear he may draw blood from the tiny indented half-moons which were darkening on his palm.
The prosateur, noting the lack of any warm ambience whatsoever, sighed internally and returned his gaze to the tarnished fork that he was stabbing, albeit unsuccessfully, at a pale sausage that was rolling around aimlessly on his own plate. The pragmatist peered subversively through his eyelashes and thought, with rather blasé indifference, it looked vaguely like a finger, or the nameless naked boy’s penis he had seen one afternoon in preschool.
The prosateur looked up, opened his mouth, and let out a jumble of shitty Romantic ideals in pathetic vernacular, training his line of vision on the bedraggled salad on the pragmatist’s plate. The pragmatist watched, sickened by the itchy stirring from within his kidneys. The prosateur furrowed his brow, siphoning the last wishy-washy word from his coitus-less dick, punctuating the spiel with a sharp clack as he once again attempted to spear the pale pink finger on his chipped plate.
The pragmatist grunted, closing his eyes momentarily in a meek attempt to combat the oncoming headache. The summer heat was getting to him. Or so he liked to think. In reality, the man suspected his easily-boiled blood was the true catalyst for his now burning skin.
To give in to loquacity or to master the art of speaking succinctly? The pragmatist sighed, looking down at his empty plate. It would only heighten the chances of him proving himself a fool to speak at such great volumes, like his counterpart exemplified. So stupid. So meaningless.
The prosateur cocked his head, rearranged semantics, and brewed himself a nice metaphor to sip on. The pragmatist inhaled the wafted scents and his stomach turned. What bullshit, he thought. What stupidity. The leaves on the slate ground, the evergreens, the pain, the taboo, unspoken love. The prosateur rambled, steaming in his own mysticism. None of it matters, the pragmatist thought.
none of it matters.