How does dead skin taste
I repeated back
laughter muffled
like the smothered homeless
to officer shiny pants.
His partner, vomit-ridden
with us both
for illusory discrepancies
crimes against humanity
omnivorous and blatant
on the green porcelain plate.
Like cold rigatoni
I said
and it turned out to be
too simple a metaphor
too easily grasped
and the shiny pants smile
quizzical, indifferent, numb
transmogrified
because now . . .
now
now
they tasted that rigor mortis pasta
like I did.
And just like that
significant others will wonder
what’s wrong with their simple Italian dishes.
Thank you SO MUCH for my complete nausea–about the contents (gag!) of the poem and that perfectly disgusting picture–not about the poem itself. I think you are writing better and better poems. It’s as though you are “letting loose”–and that’s wonderful.
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