Saturday, January 4, 2014

Month of poetry #3: Hog calling

Arms side by side on the fence
hers brilliant bacon, his fine ham hock.
Every chat a poetry of interruptions
sentence rinds chewed up, repeated
to see who can speak the most vampire.
Lore is Crap on a pig farm where shit
is the layers of history: our home is
girt by C. Turdish strata built up
in shoe treads reads like rings of oak
and seams of farming voices distributed.
Being with pigs is to be in love with a side
on show, moving generations of comfortable
arses up road with a twang on the old left cheek
and a slap on her old hammy.
Crotchpong Cropduster always kept away
in his bachelor Don Juan pen, shampooed
weekly so the porkers could enjoy.
The confidence of thicker and fuller hair,
flanks polished into worldly glow.
He's a prize, a prize, dumping and humping
his way into pig hearts and family wallets with
all the slick glory of a Vaudeville ham, happy
as a pig in

Including suggestions from:

@pinknantucket: most vampire lore is crap (Supernatural)
@spikelynch: distributed being
@ernmalleyscat: our home is girt
@attentive: a twang on the old
@timsterne: her old hammy crotchpong (Cloudstreet)
@lucyrogue: could you enjoy the confidence of thicker and fuller hair?

A couple of...challenging there...

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