Graham Ramsey

word blobs blast out of your mouth
each a sickly jello
molded to the shape of social unease

an oral reduction
simmered down and congealed
steaming discomfort at the prospect of empathy
trickles into pithy-glazed pablum
while dappled assumptions float to the top of the pot
as your cheeks blush
as your eyes fall

you can sanitize the counter before you leave
but you may as well not,
it’s already clean

tell me the real temperature of the meat
not what it feels like

if i can’t sniff the aroma of reality
or lick sweetness off my spoon
just give me codeine-chip cookies on the couch
and plop me in front of the fucking food channel

give me crudités straight out of the fridge
i’ve got time to wait for you
ripping off the saran wrap
don’t “utilize” when you mean “use”

proffer a grin, a wink, a raw beat
you can sprinkle some emotion
it’s ok, i have a spice tolerance
How the fuck we feeling baby?

don’t be sorry, don’t feel bad
it’s not that you oughtn't to have said anything at all
I just want to dine on your head
and be where you are
and chew past this wall