Tuesday, October 23, 2007

If Love Were a Slurpee, I Would Pour It Down a Black Hole

I should feast on myself

instead of this mold.

But I tremble
in my 60 inch home, and
my stomach roars,
so I excavate
that garbage can
for bulletproof French bread,
for a scrap of banana
beneath any primate,
for a smeared and smooshed
hot dog that resembles
a steamrolled clown.

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