Salad

The little worms so faithful
That salad I take in my belly
It’s rather catchy ain’t it?
Lick it clean, this plate, down lower.

This pad of paper feels so unnatural
Like the ink is spreading over the virus
This computer is so satisfying
Like a tit in your mouth.

I’m so hungry
Vegetables don’t make it for me
Maybe I should, no it would be
Shhh too noisy

STELLA!
Oh crack that bottle yes
Hold it still
Maybe he won’t see you

That rock looks soft enough
Paint set for children
My father’s program
Programmed wrong
What a challenge!

Scrub those veggies
Whip them into shape
They’ll need their workout
In my belly

Peanut butter sandwich
Adopted pickle
Soft mustard fish
And a sunny side up egg on you bald head

If you paint that clock again
I’ll have to make love to you
If you sing that song again
I’ll have to make love to you
If you read my poem and smile
I’ll either hate you
Or I’ll have to make love to you

I write my best when I’m red
I write my best when I’m pale
I rest my best when I’m tired
When I’m my best
I am my worst
Because I don’t think about it

Pretty tomato paste
Catch my catchy eating
Take my salad bowl and crack it
Marlon will stab himself with it
And you’ll smile
And prove the daughter wrong

British boys are good.
Like lots of vinegar on a salad
You can’t swallow pure.