TREY FACT OF THE DAY(read: POST [read: MONTH OR SO]) i have been drinking hot chocolate like it was going out of style (if it goes out of style i will simply cease to exist).
okay so i guess something worth mentioning is i have a specific process for revising poetries. i do it as i go along, so really by the time i've finished writing a poem it's already been revised a bunch. granted it's mostly things like word choice and line breaks that get revised but i mean, that counts right? i do occasionally go back and add more to certain poetries, but for the most part nah. does that make me a bad writer? yeah probably. do i care? yeah a little. so i guess what you can take from this is that any poetries that show up on here are still definitely works in progress and i totally reserve the right to say they suck and take them down if they suck so bad i have to take them down.
that being said here is a poetries! it's about a sandwich i made one time
(untitled for now)
a loss of sight and sound means i have an excuse
to ignore the clicking clacking vorpal fangs that are said to lurk
always three feet nearby. Or an excuse to ignore
the high pitched whining nagging banshee scream that i get
from my smoke alarm when I go Dr. Frankenstein with the eggs
and the bacon that I exhume from the fridge. I call my frying pan Igor.
I slice and dice and splice together an abomination and grin wildly
when the grease pops bomb my bare flesh, melting the skin ever so slightly.
The Bacon Tomb is what this monster will be called when it terrorizes the villages
of my arteries. Six strips,
two eggs fried in bacon-born grease,
and untold amounts of peanut butter dripping through the cracks
and holes of buttered bread. The satisfying crunch echoes
in my mouth's cavern while the grease rises in revolt
and the bacon takes to arms
and the eggs boil tar and strip feathers
But I am too in love with my creature to notice my tower burning down.