my poems will devour me
I'm yesterday's inedible leftovers
a toothless heartburning sigh
a morsel of double-speak
its almost good to be dumb
they're having seconds
(of me)
for dessert
I cake walk on rhyme
forget the icing
taste buds burn
it won't be digested
if overcooked
(or overlooked)
no one will sniff
after cold lines like this
no boxer can box
me in a book
let the kitchen help
devour the cook
if you have nothing better
then fry me
in your own grease
but you'll never
scrape me off the bottom
all right
let's revel in spice
steep in (pick)led soup
I roast on a spit
I'm the pit of the poem
bad mouthed after the first course
salted
hung to dry in the attic
a smoke house
ham of memory
I can't really down the grue
cooked on condition
o raw denizen
o red wine
froth of my pen
crackling image
impish pancake
patted on the behind
jam plotting
cool against the wall
I grease (the) pan's sides
stretch my verses to strudel
I graze on lofty themes
of aspic and poppy seeds
dry now from all that is inevitable
so now burn the recipe
in shirtsleeves no less
gorge
swallow whole the meatless epic
choke on quills
shred themes and tears
bite into me hard
bite into me longing
o appetite for life