A little bit of slam poetry from the mid-oughts.
Prelude…
Piece of uni
one small bite
late at night
exploding rich, across my tongue
toes curled
eyes closed
forehead pressed against the wall
barely audible moan
deep in my throat.
We ought to eat like we fuck
grocery stores
farmers markets
CSAs
roadside stands
backyards
meat markets
meet markets
it’s all the same.
What looks good? What catches your eye?
What scents make you writhe?
Plump? Lean?
Hard? Soft?
Silky? Rough?
Stony inside? Stormy inside?
Burst, and then
nothing?
Opening line
hi, my name’s Peter
5.99
Plump melons
real, or re-engineered?
Home finally
frenzied revelations
no time contemplations
splay’d open ‘cross the counter
a little bit of heat
melting butter, silky smooth
slippery.
Foreplay / Fireplay
Need a good technique
long, slow simmer
don’t boil over.
Fresh white table
sheets
scented of lilacs
and latkes.
That first taste
when fevered imaginings
daytime open eye fantasies
dry mouth mouth-breathing
somewhere, just not
here
sometime, just not
now
then, before you know
it
in a moment, blurred by a
heartbeat and the rush of blood…
Salivation becomes salvation
the i disappears
makes the we.
Lick your lips
wet with the flavor and the essence
of that last delicious taste.
Eyes closed
toes curled
forehead pressed against the wall…
We ought to eat like we fuck.