All you can eat

All the pieces have been rationed out
and crumbs sustain me.

I remain seated after all are done,
awaiting my excuse.

The lights have long dimmed
and all voices echo over themselves.

A faint trace of repast and laundry
hangs atop the resting air.

The candle flame belly dances lasciviously
low and full.

In jest, the world smelt a silver platter,
lining up and leaving a generous tip.

I count cents,
I keep my change
ingesting the feastful rest.

Painting by Monogrammist Hb. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Hunger in the sculpture garden

Tempting as it sounds
to taste literature with my tongue
there is a limit to what we can know
about authors intentions
the recipe is always
made to personal taste.
And once again I was lured to lick-
almost taunted
to be truthful-
with its smooth lines
melting in the sun
to tactfully taste the Rodin.
My palm salivating
I took a tiny sip
with just my salted fingertip
and noted the same
famished touch as Auguste,
kneaded under me. So I proceeded
to touch each one,
with my limb and flesh, swallowing the
sculptures and devouring their
stoic expressions.
A feast for the eyes,
an appetizer of art, bodies of work
for my insatiable appetite craving more

elements in my metallic spit.


Photo credit: Me, myself and I, 2/11/16.