Craving A Hot Dog

Craving A Hot Dog

The wind beats the leaves like blackboard brushes,
shaking their pollen in a filmy dust on my window.

All I can taste is onion
from my afternoon dalliance
with cockish meat, and I’m wondering
how I managed to chew it,
masticating it without thinking
about what it was; mouth-watering and appealing,
turned pungent and unsavoury.

I prettied it up
to mask the repellent reality of it;
burnt-dandelion mustard and
emerald-pearl relish to hide the
pink beginnings and tubular ends.

The onion lingers to taunt me;
a hangover of the flesh,
a reminder of my whorish gluttony.
I wear it and exude it; it’s written
on my face.

I could brush it away, wash it away, but then,
I’d have nothing to smile mischievously about.

Most days I’m chaste with regard to meat.
Though it tantalizes with its provocative scent
and its lustful, salty spark to the virginal tongue,
I keep a safe distance, only sampling
when the mood overpowers my good senses.
Wrapped in a white blanket of firm, yet delicate
fleshiness, I can barely stand to be near it, without
touching it.

It always begins with a fervour:
the first atomic taste with
an overflow of flavour.
It eggs me on, entrances me,
until I lose focus,
forgetting all the lessons and etiquette
that a good girl puts into practice.

When I’m done, I’m filled up and unable
to think of consuming anymore.
I’m done with meat, I think, but
know that deep within, the longing will
rear its head once more, when the time is right;
the carnivorous compulsion will return.

Though full,
with a tired jaw,
and with thick mustard crusting
in the corners of my lips,
I’m feeling a strange need for sweetness,
for something more soothing
than the frenetic, repetitive destruction
of thrust and muscle.

I need ice cream.