This Morning, Before Visiting The Toilet (The Silver Bowl)

We awoke this morning, in an oven glove.
It held our bodies, as we made love;
And I fancied you could feel
My consolidated evening meal,
Lending weight to my thrusts;
The soup, the croutons, the crusts,
The melted cheese, the lamb on a spit:
The unevacuated shit,
Lending weight to my thrusts …

I was proud of my fatuous lusts;
The digested lamb was now a sheep,
My thrusts were heavy and deep -
Heavy on you, and deep inside.
The sheep was turning - its legs still tied,
Still roasting on a spit,
Soaking up flour from the crusts:
Unevacuated shit,
Binding together, augmenting my thrusts;

The weevils in the flour, unsifted,
And the herbs that had topped my dessert,
Pressed me down and lifted -
Pushed down, until it hurt;
The grated lemon, the mustard dressing,
The soft and torn off crusts,
Were binding together, giving their blessing,
And lending weight to my thrusts …

I despise my fatuous lusts -
Scatological, crude;
When did my shit stop being my food;
And had it begun to lend its weight
Before it was served on my plate,
And even before the food was prepared?
If the lamb’s life had been spared -
A pet, for the farmer to keep -
Would my thrusts, this morning, have been so deep?

And, now, alone, I have to admit,
I still keep thinking of food and shit.
I think of the critic - the food writer;
His menu, when closed, is tighter
And more carnal than any hole:
The waiter puts down a silver bowl
And opens the wine - my excitement grows;
The critic inhales through his nose,
And I am sealed in the menu’s spine …
Then, when I come, he spits the wine
Into the bowl, supplied …

The lamb is turning - its legs still tied;
Slowly, I find relief, and pass
The sheep’s tongue, still stained with grass,
And then its teeth - the lips pulled back,
Slapping together, becoming slack,
As the rest of the head emerges.
After passing the food, a feeling surges
And rumbles through my soul;

I drink the wine from the silver bowl,
Dreaming that I am drifting above,
Watching the two of us, making love:
My thrusts are majestic - the angle is steep;
Between my buttocks, the tongue of the sheep
Is the only part that is showing -
Stained with grass, raspberry-blowing -
Blowing out, between each cheek,
Belittling my technique.

The liquid I drink from the silver bowl
Hardens inside me - shines like a pole,
Used by pole-dancing strippers;
And agile limbs replace the flippers
Of my kidneys, lungs and heart:
An entire body - its legs apart -
Simulates sex within mine,
Sliding down the solidified wine,
Swinging around, working for tips;
And as the body within me strips -
Never involving me -
I fear that, after this fantasy,
The pole will remain, and slowly migrate
To a place where, perhaps, it would lend its weight,
Were it not so unyielding and long;
I will feel the spray of the sheep’s tongue,
Between my legs, around my sack
And on the downy small of my back,
As the insolent pole hampers my thrusts …
I despise my fatuous lusts.