“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
The fork of desire
Primal hunger pangs taunt
and flaunt past senses.
Penetrating dimensions,
the jaw clenches.
Unrelenting thirst
pinched cheeks; pursing lips
cracked and trembling.
Pining for a sharp tool-
as an axe would wield
extracting the will.
Determined to fulfill
and sate the craving
unabating, excruciating
gnaw and growl
at a plate that is full
and still that dull
pull for more.
All mine-
stuck on the tine
pierced and tenderized,
penetrating and salivating
at the carnal need,
an insatiable greed.
Ravenous utensil by design
the heart, glutted and gored
a small spade, an aspiring apparatus
an ideal instrument of implementing
a stab through the chest.
Delighted and possessed,
past deprived, I digest-
admiring the architecture
of the fiercely savage fork.
Image of cannibal fork from the Bishop Museum in Honolulu, HI by Ergosum88.
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