Sundays only by Stephen Miles

Sundays only

Metaphoric adjective, the what came first
calcium carbonate encrusted embryo
or a subspecies of red junglefowl
cracked, content laid bare, either or

salted by flesh juices of the omnivore, genus sus
sliced, diced, cured and preserved
fatted belly and leaning back
each a smoker’s delight

religion falls fowl of the beastly reference
pecking snorts at the feeder’s trough
contented by confetti’ing aspirationals
pitting Burka against Friday’s fish

the farmyard playground littered by droppings
used as next generation fertiliser
cultivating non photosynthesizers
from the kingdom of fungi

neatly partnering members of night’s shade
fiesta Spanish blood red fruit, multi-seeded
sizzling in pans, enjoying Olive’s oil
yielding in form as fungi holds firm

take a moment of prayer for the less fortunate
unscrupulously plucked, used to sweeten the bean
stewed, opposed to the lead believe, baked
hats off to the dancing Haricots

combining all components pursuing fast breaks English style
splashes water on the dozing unsuspecterants
food’s opiate, subliminally administered by aroma
hooking to a lifetime’s addiction.

Stephen Miles about Stephen Miles. I’m 53 diagnosed dyslexic at 47, 47 years avoiding literary word, I’ve discovering spell check as a best friend. My subterranean mental deficiency proved an unfounded, exploding to the surface as a wordsmiths lava. Flowing the external walls of a poetic volcano. So yes, I now write poems. Poems about the life, life around me. Things I see, hear, perceive unjust. Basically, shooting my mouth off.

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