A poem by a friend (titled: Lipsmack)

December 16, 2006

Being stuffed, it hated.

But it did not feel:
        frequency of jabbing and stabbing
                of gleaming tools,
                        as gleaming as their owners’ eyes.

To silence forevermore,
        An apple– unorthodoxly shoved.
Sight was not needed,
        Eyelids sag in front of hollows.
Blistered, seared, peeling skin;
        Crackling crisps
                that sloughed away before greed.
A posture of submission,
        Legs torn off to pleasure.

I love roasted pig.
        Don’t you?
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