the saving flower

i extend, caress a flower
to his thick black hair,
pull the trigger,
fire-
like coals to gray
ashes of immortality.
blossom bullets
weaving a hollow masterpiece
throughout his fertile memory,
seeding luscious overgrowth
spilling to the otherside
weeping willow.

i pick the petals,
as silk to teeth and tongue,
brush away his gray,
and contemplate my garden.

The Hunger

vegans repel his pig-sweat, pot-belly,
cloven-hooves. he lay fetal on hardwood
across the room, seizing from
unholy aromas, teared by
suety steam that blankets pagans
who cook on (Most) high, use oils
with low flash points, and singe
the walls black with gluttony, creeping
skyward apparition tendrils
that pool and flood and rain
like burned butter, enhancing flavor
to all sans umbrella or pot-lid cover
or kosher aura, yet all three
submit to this slow-boil penetrating
living breath of now kitchen-god,
dripping lusty salivations
for anything with a heartbeat.

kitchen-gods are little kids,
this place is a dinner plate,
and only vegetables are safe.