Name drop soup

Am I cute in this frilly toque, a batter
splashed all about my body lily white?
Mighty tasteless if your joint is fried.
Call my recipe tasteless, I well dare it.
The long baptism of these men and women
brokers no dainty-fingered sampling.
Kerouac I boil the water with, dotting
the eggs I beat later. Hot, hot water.
Whitman I leave on the sill to cool
his birds entreatied, my pie protected
if quaint. Sexton her I nip scores of
to get my head right, get it gone.
I serve a meal to the black bums out
back when I catch the harried notion,
call that dish sticky-fingered Dambudzo.
If I were kitsch I’d name a dish
of fine ground sugar Frost’s pastries,
but I wasn’t licensed for it in academy.
Instead I invite him to wine me in
dinner, ask him why all the prudence
instead of remorseless flagrancy. Neruda,
he stops in, beats some woman and tells
the moon to take her to the hospital
in a very sweet, a very spicy voice.

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~ by Jeremy on May 26, 2012.

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