So much time and spent effort thrown
onto paper with such passion,
so many words from soul-grown
love’s death hate wrongful action.

Just give me a pork chop.
Nothing fancy.
A pork chop.

Sweet light meat.
Juices running down the side,
tender, lickable, silky to
the taste, naked to the bone
lying, waiting just for me.

Mine.
All for me.
Coveted by many meant for me
and me alone,
uncovered to the essence,
sacrifice to my lips and tongue
and grasp
to roughly do with
as I may.
Mine.

Twisting tongue around,
swirling to manipulate
sucking in to pause
and savor,
starting once again
increasing fervor
twisting tongue again
from lip to lip to lick.

Juices flowing
synapse fires to
scent to nerve to
wanton grappling,
twisting for advantage
never never
letting go,
tasting tonguing nibbling
seizing smelling probing
drawing pulling
slowly slowly lasting
never long enough.

Yeah.
Simple.
Clear abandon.
Pork chop.

01/10/2006

Posted on 01/11/2006
Copyright © 2025 Timothy Somers