I really enjoyed writing this poem, I hope you enjoy reading it!
The Vulture Descends
Dark plumage
Of salt and pepper
Descends
On this icebox wasteland
Pale fingertips
And naked gray skin
Clutching and clawing
Ripping the flesh
From tender bones
Pulverizing
Chocolate-brown Chunks Ahoy
Ingesting and regurgitating a
Milky-white substance
Grunting and hissing
And moaning in
Intimate pleasure
Disturb only,
At great peril,
This lover’s feast
Nocturnal,
Walking figure
Scavenges
Late into the night…
Seeking to satiate
And abate
His need for…
One
Single Friend.
Like this poem a lot, Shartina. It's risky and imaginative and image-rich. When you say "Scavenges/ Late into the night…" maybe you could bing us back very briefly to the purely vulture world somehow (feathers & beaks or whatever :)—even though we're firmly and gladly aware by now that we're in a metaphorical world of binge-eating as well. It's fun when the poem also sustains the literal. Ending: how about "One/ single friend—/ himself"? Well, maybe anyway (or maybe not). Just that's how the psychology also works, I believe. Such an important topic and intense, important writing. Wow. —kw
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