/lit/ - Literature

Guys I wrote a burger punk poem about going to McDonalds in London. Let me know what you think. Perhaps this could become a burgperpunk general (we sorely need one, I really believe).

Pic related is the actual interior of the one I'm going to rn


Hard to Believe

Hard to believe that there’s a
good fast food place right
here in Chelsea. It’s probably
the only vestige of Americana

that lines the streets; cobblestones’
lots, of other restaurants trying
out food from other cultures,
blindly mixing and matching

flavors while their own pots
overboil and the water goes bad,
needing more salt in the water,
more spice on the dish, but no

one sticks their nose into the
golden arches that make a good
home for someone who doesn’t
know what to do with their

whole long day. Wake up
too early and there’s not much
to do. Nothing is open. The
underground rumbles. Your

mind is fatigued already,
no sleep, no telling what the
badness of a suite of bad dollar
menu items will do to you,

but at the same time who cares?
It probably tastes like home.