donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, gaudy empty,

slippery buttery

donuts.

 

I climb through donut holes,

small mole in woe

indented into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

boiling

tackling

flour, sugar and coil.

The final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: it fits.

Tender and appealing

Slender, full of splendour

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make

it sickeningly sweeter?

and maybe if I ingest all that syrup,

I’ll discreetly be as sugar,

delicious

delightful?

 

I’ll eat around the hole,

until the hole is no longer a hole

walk out of its role,

for what’s around it is gone,

it’s just one whole,

nothing.

Maybe the hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will take flight?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

a hole.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid delight,

give me a bite,

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

Munch this donut up, and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am,

down to the last damn gram.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough has

a purpose,

a hero’s journey,

a place in the circus.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that I will too?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, is an intruder,

a tumour,

but I’m lost at the riddle of escape.

And if my hole were to cave in with all this dough

would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

All this dough can’t hide.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

So I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

three,

two,

one

 

buy me another ring-shaped

fried sugar thing, or whatever,

as long as it can pile up

inside me and I’ll feel this fullness

for once,

even if its just in my stomach.

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3 thoughts on “donut hole

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