Animals are nutritive friendly foes.
They are by God's authority subdued.
They have been source of unexpected woes,
When no proper active measure accrued.
Of them, we find rich foods flavored enough
To bless our darling demanding stomachs.
But as time passes by, hunting gets tough,
As feral soldiers keep tight their barracks.
For games, you also search for survival
Through worthwhile charms; cage wild game like capon.
Be careful, you: also versa rival.
Loose guard and turn the game animals feed on.
Hunting is a commemorative job,
Beyond fresh fleshy games to feed your gob.
On your pale hard tummy, lined up so neat I row,
with the queens permission bloomers in plastic on E Bay.
Those spears and swords used as pens, two brown, one pink and deep cobalt that blue...
You reach out to rediscover the other I am that wandering traveler
Scribbling tonight in frantic haste covered in your yellow Van Gogh paste.
Are you sneaky and secretive in your nutritive contemplations.
Do you want to wander under the stars for a little while?
Between the pulse of the sun today and light Tommie is heavy and full this night.
Basking golden in a silence that will never leave upon awaking then woman thus come when it does.
Imagining all kinds of your imaginings...
Lips between those short Greek words that only you could find monotheist use for, alas because of you, I squirm.
And you and they on some named flatulent horse of a book.
Look at me and it comes in a hurry blurry haze all over us
and when I do you as want by your will, I am properly twisted
I am tall-table young.
Mum turns up the blue flames,
lowers the thick sausages.
Dripping crackles,
the iron skillet is licked with fat,
a nutritive sizzle.
The meat finds its voice;
a splutter of buttery smaze.
The pork is in bloom,
the animal inside the flesh
disappearing,
the meat opening florets of aroma.
Mother turns, cheeks flushed,
not looking at me,
seeing only a man who will arrive soon,
say’s out loud:
“He will love these.”
My stomach cramps
with an acidic disappointment.
For every hard labor
A dish of such flavor
As one does savor
And would keenly devour
As nutritive favor.
Next, you face the rigor
Requiring one’s vigor,
All along shorn of humor
For the sure strains and tremor.
So, no skipping of work song
Or the tasks shall last long
And you’d seem The Weakly Strong,
Eyeing more hands of a throng;
Even in heaven, quite wrong!
Then, for every hard labor
Even at a ship’s harbor
Work songs of the sonorous…
Need I list The Numerous?
Nutritive nectar,
Honeysuckle is the prize;
To the pointed beak.
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