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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donut hole

Recently,

I’ve been stuffing

my body and organs with

tissue paper, empty,

slippery butter and

holes,

 

I climb through donut holes,

as a small mole in woe at

indentations into fried dough,

dirty oil bubbling

oil tackling

flour, butter and all.

Now, the final product sits

through my finger like a loose

ring: tender and appealing

and

whole.

I contemplate,

how shall I make it

sickeningly sweet?

and maybe if I ingest all that sweet,

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,

now it’s just one whole,

nothing.

maybe my own hole, in between ribs

and nightless nights

will also be gone?

whole or un-hole as long

as its no longer…

hole.

 

I’ll swallow and gobble

this donut and finally I can say

something solid makes me up,

makes who I am.

This little amorphous saliva,

mucous dough, sugar ball has

a purpose,

and a hero’s journey.

Mouth to stomach, intestine to anus.

It is bound to cross the finishing line,

reminding me, forcefully,

that maybe I can too?

I must be able to?

It’s like trying to sink in brine.

 

Teeth stained by moist

divine, liquid sugar:

guilty for that hopeful nectar.

 

Eating this donut:

destruction of the void.

That cave in the middle, an intruder

and I’m a marauder without a map.

If my hole were to cave in would it be full,

fulfilled? Filled in,

but in the right way?

 

The problem, plain simple,

sits in the middle. The

hole.

Infinitely a hole,

infinitely nothing.

It’s okay, I’ll gobble down

sugar coated outsides

and poof! the hole softly

fades out of existence,

my hole slowly fades

out of existence for…

 

one,

two,

three,

 

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.

 

I know no other material,

usable material to fill this tunnel.

crum-pets

crumpets

my tongue taps the palate

twice

two consonants

bounce

pounce

between my

lips

 

i sweetly formulate

the word and

it languidly

glides down

onto the plate

like butter

 

mewling in pleasure

the syllables

sink into

the miracle before me;

 

and under the sunlight

it’s color teeters between

golden hair and

creamy licks.

 

its edges break silence

crisply with

compliance

as teeth create

clean cuts,

and slice,

rip,

scratch it apart

like one of pavlov’s

dogs

 

mercilessly,

ceaselessly,

but with method.

 

and i’ll be left

with crumbles that have

nowhere left to go

like lost children in a

mall,

they desperately

recompose try not to

decompose

after a moment of trepidation-

i edge closer,

jaw slack,

sticking my tongue out-

they land on it quite

bluntly

like land mines exploding

into last flakes of

pleasure

 

… it’s gone

 

i guess i’ll toast another-

the butter’s out of the fridge

anyway