Flesh under my fist, skin bare, Hair at my boots as I stomp and kick, Blood at the end of my tongue, My world is all that is. Lotus of petals, abundant. The manager says, like it is in the front. They just happen to be dead ones, Laced in platinum and cobwebs. Eyes for war and other nonsense, Fair, That their soul be unintentionally dragged in, Pious to only whores and other men.
French onion soup, art and skill, Cheese on top as I part my lips.
Whiskey, tequila, rum, Pizza, popcorn, cheeses, brown sugar, butter. Lemon, three cuts, Twist, bend it upward, Lemoncello, whiskey, Seltzer, on the rocks.
Potato and dill, Mayo and chill. Down the hill, of starch, Smoked paprika, Pepper and salt.
Only a fool around culinary, Food fast, sickness, articulary. Consume, if you only knew, Corn, for which I am forlorn, I can only eat raw foods.
If a caperberry were a fish, Would it still be in your dish, What food do you eschew, fool? Escargot, bear, fruit and goose? Verily, ask yourself this: Do you know all, what is good? Like bitter roots, Like butter runs, Desire, let me dissolve into the slime, Like a newborn child who never sees the sun.
An open mouth gasps, Hot sauce, parmesan, All I see is stars. No conscious thought, Face agaze in awe, A chicken with no wing, Would it rise or fall? As I concentrate, Stare at a spot on the wall, Eyes; waterfalls, Call off the milk, Call off the salt, My tongue stings, Craters, my teeth sting, An open mouth gasps for these things, A king sits routinely, Being above singing and fearing.
A beef roast, gravy, toast. Cheese rolls, Heap of potatoes, beans, sea salt, Garlic clove, Garlic clove, Garlic clove.
Snyder, my love. Be fire, Be tyrants, Be spiders or vipers, Lions or Tigers. Whether climate, or giants, Highland or island. Even cliffs to climb, Forever, higher and higher. Even if frightened or tired, Jalapenos, cheese, honey, mustard, Hot sauce, ranch. What is pious and righteous, I would face fury of unarmed combat, Against gunfire, to have you again.
Fresh lemon, Rush of adrenaline, Lime. Time for nachos, No black olives on mine. Salt, Salsa, Sour cream on the side, Cheese in abundance, Swine.
Table from farm, Noodles and parm, Among eggs, bacon, It's carbonara!
Bartlett pears, dare i say, or shout, Without is life austere, my world grey. Some juicy poetry I heard today: "With my hands so sticky, A world become so tricky, So quickly the armoire useless, Of rickety fences, my house is." I spoke it, To save face, Bartlett pears are on their way.
Wallow as I make fire upon my hand, Dire locks upon mired thoughts of a man, Swallowed like inner parts of a clam.
Throw all beings into groups of eagles, Snowball eating full bags of dortios. Chimp screeches I hear, Peer boasting nothing but limp, The cattle prodded openly, Dying to reach new tiers.
Dill pickle chips, I find them delicious. If I could find a fault, a little more salt. Then they would be where sweet chili heat is.
My new world is atwixt. Filled with candy and chocolate. With a wafer so crisp.
No head of lettuce larger, Plus no trade embargo. No policia to stop us, bro.
Wait Waist! Stay in Place! I should've eaten more at subway. I aimed at abstaining, dammit.