Manner of Taste

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Manner of Taste

Pushed back, pulled in tight

breathless wanting, planning and conniving

 

repulsed, fearful, indifferent

short strides down the middle of the road

balance wrapped like a cocoon

 

only to slide into one extreme or the other

elixir laced with poison

 

struggle against gravity pulling me down

to kiss but not fall

to taste but not overindulge

 

the tight rope vibrates under my feet

 

to turn away completely is impossible

my dance with food waltzes on, spinning, whirling

making me dizzy and confused

 

we hit high notes and magic steps, bowled over by passion and depth

of pleasure, only to be slung against the wall from a twirl gone wild

 

caught in a mind numbing eating frenzy

compulsive shoveling, cheeks bulging

left empty and spent

 

this lover inspires me, satisfies my lust

breaks my heart, and knocks me to my knees

 

 

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Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

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