Saturday, May 10, 2008

the olive

this poem grunts
as it shoves itself into you
it pushes your head down
and slaps your mouth open

your open mouth
stuffed wetly says
nothing this poem
slobbers on chins
into course hairs
that don't dye
like they should

this poem bent double
can lick its anus
breathe its breath
and dream of the
holes where seeds were

this poem squirts juices
when pressed it explains
consumption as wheezing
as though class
meant caste

this poem sears
other people's meat
seals in their flavours
under glass it can't be seen
for the other poems

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