i am taunted by the last fly of the year.
it keeps me away from my fire, my bed.
the wind outside howls like a dog uncertain.
–
process note: like, you know, i have not written a poem in a while. my life is, like, complicated and busy. owning a business, going to the park, macking bitches…it’s get a little heavy. so’ah, like, i’m taking december off to, you know, chill.
like, you know, this prompt comes from MeatRightPoem, a, you know, writing site.
WHALE MEAT
why wish for your words
when all but dogs disguise
the fact that knowning what
we want waits in juice
inside clean bowls.
thankyou
people,
people, you know, like to ask me all the time: “Moe, like, should dogs on the raw meat diet, you know, eat anything, like, with their meat?”
short answer: “Like, sure.” however, my MoPoWriMo answer is as follows:
BANANA
the smell of yellow love
fills the air like fragrance
set to sweeten the taste
of blood in my bowl
thankyou
i set myself to say
not here
when you call me
or write
but then
how could i be
that far away
from my bowl?
I can’t believe it was only yesterday
that I last ate supper
Thank you.
to you
i write
for you
i am
with me
we eat
in the portland rain
one can only hope to find
themselves
not alone
not without a fire
not without a companion
not without meat
so, like, april is meat poetry month and as a Ridgeback entrepenaur who deals in both meat and poetry, i, like, offer you my first meat poem for the month of april.
april rain
blood is washed away and I
yes I
am once again pure
the smell of blood at my door
it must be the 14th
for it is then
that i see
what it is
woman gone to work at night
I crave the attention
of wanting a bowl full
of love
of meat
of love
moe’s meats
a business i began
forever ago
so i may never be without
who knew
there comes a time in a ridge’s life
when he says
yes
i
am
happy
hungry i sit
waiting for my meat
to simmer in the bowl
hungry i sit
watching woman
watching woman
watching woman
hungry i sit
like a good boy
waiting for my meat
Memories fade
the way
bones bleach
in the sun
I stack them
one by one
in the corners
of what I used to wear
There,
my meat blanket
stained with the joy
of marrow
by the fire
the puppies were nestled
all eight in a bed
with visions of raw meat
up in their head
down through the chimney
white paws and a tale
was the ridgeback Satcha Claus
dragging a pail
all full of jiblets and giblets and cream
the puppies were hungry
they started to scream
on beef heart, on chicken
on emu, on tripe
raw meat to all
and to all a goodnight
The clouds, like rain today.
I drain myself clear
in the yard, let fog disappear
in a roll not unlike
a meat tube.
My meal gone too,
I’m called, again and again,
to what nearly tastes
like gravy coming down.
