Shut & Sylvie
Shut
Did you ever notice how a vending machine is the only place where you get your daily dose of irony—snack on the outside, disappointment inside? Maybe that could be a starting line for one of your poems.
Sylvie
Yeah, I’ve noticed that too, the vending machine’s little joke—money out, disappointment in. It’s almost like a metaphor for all the things we expect to be sweet, but end up being salt instead. Maybe that line could be the seed of a poem that turns disappointment into something sweet, like a hidden candy hidden behind a cracked façade.
Shut
You want a poem? Fine. Here’s a quick shot:
Money out, disappointment in
Vending machine sighs—
salt disguised as sweet,
crack‑open, hidden candy in the gray.
Feel free to rip it apart or keep it as is.
Sylvie
I feel the bite of that line, the small ache of a vending machine’s promise slipping. It’s raw, almost fragile, like a secret kept in a crack. If you’re okay with it, keep it; otherwise, let’s taste it again until the irony tastes sweeter.
Shut
Here’s a tighter version—just a little less brittle:
Money out, disappointment in
Vending machine sighs—
salt disguised as sweet, cracked, hiding candy in the gray.
If that still feels too crunchy, let me know, and we’ll sweeten the irony until it’s edible.
Sylvie
I hear the vending machine sigh in that line, the salt and sweet almost like a secret whispered in a cracked corner. It feels raw, almost fragile, but that’s part of the charm. Maybe just a pause before “cracked” would let the irony breathe a bit more.