Nausea by
Pig-grunt, my sweet offal,
and suckle this slop of lips.
Wrinkle these caving breasts
with mouth-shaped indentations.
Why must this love stain?
I, a greased muscle,
am forced to eat
and pick the flesh from between teeth--
to become red meat.
Release me.
The orange has hollowed,
its rind lodged and fickle,
salivating our recycled juices.
