The Glutton's Lament by Frank Vasquez

We're shitting chocolate
and processed cheese –
the nigger's diet a radioactive white man's waste refuse dream.

A six pack on a pothead's stomach,
and steroid pills for the
I Got The Munchies.
Popping pills and a heroin's addict
hates sesame seed bagels, but loves
the cinnamon raisin swirl of glazed Cinnabuns
going straight to my ass.
And, shaking my phatty, I know
I got enough drunk in my trunk to waste your junk.

The sewer sewage our homogenized milk.
And wide open pastures of duck shit
to roll down the hills of.
To roll down the blinds of windows facing the noon-time sun
that flicker in the breeze as the Zippos
of Camels in leather jackets,
Crying, with a bright array of feathers on my head,
"more Ovaltine and KFC, please!"

Help me, I think I'm going to be healthy
off this soy-based protein bar and Slim Fast shake.
Postmortem suicide note: the contents of my bowels
on the seat of my pants and clinging to my socks,
and ass hair, are dried chunks of Cheese Wiz,
or Cool Whip, mixed with her urine
and my own saliva –
because I'm into that sort of stuff.
I like to experiment.
God kill my mother for giving birth to me
and forgiving my masturbation on her sofa with scrambled
eggs and porn.

I'd like to think there's
something wrong with me,
Doc, I need some vagina Viagra-
my wifey's leaving me.
I can't get it up
to the shelf and out of sight!
So, I've just been swallowing
my own load, regurgitated
from that hooker's mouth
and my dog's food bowl.

Poor old people eating cat food
invite me to dinner, but I'll politely
refuse and use their bathroom to
pop antacids and exercise my right to bulimia.
I'm sure no one will mind.
I don't leave a mess.

Because I clean up my vomit –
smear it on my shirt, and braid it into her hair,
so she'll smile at me and know I'm tender
as a frozen fast food burger with a side order of fries
and some BBQ sauce to rinse the taste of her
cigarette tar off my tongue and down my throat.

There's delight in every delicious bite of
her nippled pastries and that cherry!
on her whipped cream Sunday sundae,
because Saturdays I'm too drunk to get it up
and, God, is our sex amazing.
Now if only I could remember it and
if only she could find the dumpster where she
put my baby to roast.