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.