Here’s one about bacon.
Not Sir Francis
who is reputed to have died
from the illness he contracted
while stuffing a chicken with snow
but the strips of flesh
that are yanked from yowling
in the garishly lit chambers of desire.
Oh, there I go.
‘Chambers of Desire’.
A stab at erudition in a poem about bacon.
Oh, there I go again; ‘Stab’.
But it is about desire, isn’t it?
And so we might rightfully
invoke the Eliotic ‘Chambers of Desire’.
For what tastes better than bacon?
Period. You know this to be true.
In the old Hammer Horror movies
the murderer’s limb
is still inhabited by the
dreg of spirit that drove
it to murder in the first place,
and so the sorry transplantee
is obliged to murder in turn.
Why then do we not shriek
in blunt-nosed horror at breakfast,
flailing, kicking, barking, throwing sweat and terror.
Why do we not scream like the flayed
over our eggs and toast?
The rotary surgical steel has its way.
The beady-eyed beastie
tosses its head
wild eyed as the instruments
descend, or approach from the periphery
to make of the living thing
a wet flag in a Ziploc bag.
Something even a timid
blade-skittish househusband might
pluck from the shelf without blanching.