deepundergroundpoetry.com

The Feud of Love

� �
Cold residue on sheets � � �
mocks my appetite for lunch � � �
I stare at the toothpaste
smeared in the sink � � �
and remember your final screams � � �
after I caught you using my brush � � �
� � �
The spoor of toilet seat down � � �
drives its knife into memory � � �
and nicks off a slice to keep � � �
dainty ankles teasing panties � � �
beyond the squeal of a nipple's peep � � �
� � �
Was it the delicate flesh of your neck � � �
that tasted softest � � �
or the pink surrender of tongue � �
I think for a treat �I may braid you
into a necklace made from sausages � � �
to be stabbed with a fork
and then hung � � �
� � �
I've grown sick of
lover's curry � � �
it only gets thrown away � � �
and now that you're �
dead and dumb � �
I can't bear to stomach your leftovers � � �
warmed up for a third day