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Franks
Your buns are always so warm and soft,
and the fresh aroma of kosher beef stings my nostrils.
My mouth drools at the idea of you in my hands.
Salty fermented shredded cabbage,
spread over snake dancing deli mustard.
Wait,
Six bucks for a hot dog?
Go fuck yourself.
I Haven’t Eaten For 9 Hours
Holy grandeur of G-d!
The flaming hot sauce,
makes my mouth shine,
as I retrieve them from the shook foil.
I gather the greatness.
The oils ooze down my wrist,
and the seared drums tread all over
me, smeared and smudging napkins,
wearing and sharing the soiled smell,
of delicious bare Louisiana,
where they walk bare foot.
I feel nature has never been spent better.
These things live dearest
to me, deep in my heart.
Fresh black western BBQ
lights up my taste buds.
My big brown eyes roll eastward,
brinking back into my head,
like a holy ghost.
My body broods with ultimate satisfaction.
Ah, warm breasts and bright hot wings.
It Doesn’t Smell, But It Hasn’t Been Washed
Almost shedding into snakes,
twirling uncontrollably northeast southwest.
Doggie ears or bunny ears,
each drunk driving in opposite directions.
The underbelly is a solid brillo pad,
a miniature shield kippah,
a warming football helmet
of brown and blond Sideshow Bob clumps.
He itches but no, he’s just scratching his head.
So much dedication it must take,
to be in control of himself,
but not of his hair.
Writer’s Block
My creativity has escaped,
and my nose has lost its tip.
My pen must be clogged,
and I don’t know where to start.
So much to say,
I feel intimidated.
Lost but haven’t started the journey,
of infinite possibilities.
So many directions.
and I lie flabbergasted.
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