Monday, December 8, 2014

SATISFACTION

In a typical mock-
mirthful
ploy—to be right

at the nice birth-
day party—festive pastel flecked
chunks of

come-at-
able chilly 
bluewhite ice cream 

cake 
practically falling
right out of their mouths—

the sly poet 
begins

to pull back—and let fly 
cocksure

that pie—must be

for grownups 
because—say
some gory crimson slurry that's bludgeoned 

and shoved
away inside—some arcane and off-
colored and

impenetrable breadstuff—
is truly 
nothing if not firstly—a recondite thing; 

before pausing—to hunt down
the glazed eyes
of his sugar-

spice niece 
and 
nice nephew—around five

who
of course—have even less than

no idea—
what the guy's after.

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