Smoked Ham Slow Jam

Cascading avalanches over sour dressed ranches
mountainous flesh volcanoes spilling boiling sauces
landscapes of potato bake and pudding flake
under a blanket of smoke and mustard seeds.

This is the fake one
give me the bacon
now make like the ice cream and run
fall into folds among the pots and scalds
and be dressed for dinner by seven.

Can’t even conceive of the pants that you’ve messed in
struggling comparison in lascivious latin
bilious luncheon and shouldering cold
dropping antacid and tripping on baggage.

Obscure the trail and double back double back double
plunging like stone into a coffee river rapid
float like a swollen marshmallow
churning wriggling and ceaselessly giggling
cutting the trimmings and claiming the winnings
to escape by the teeth on my skin.

My eyes doth deceive but my head doth believe
and it’s time I got them both checked
my words are defiled and my brain is rewired
and shame is all that is left.

You sparkle and shine yet you’re still alive(!)
under sheeting rain and pixelated sleet
my hands clench at the bruise of revenge
but in this sandwhich I feel like the meat.

Begone from my memories, my city, my sleep,
casting away and cursing the memory deep
rewinding back and fast forward forever
over heels head and whatever
tumbling blinded and loping lopsided
spilling my beans all over the street.

Falling into the present and yet frozen inert
abyssal fridge logic and abandoned yoghurt
remembering nothing of being possessed,
and forgetting everything in devouring death.

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