Ray Osborn

To Butterball


ISSUE 67 | CAMP | AUG 2016

(who is always excluded from being the reader of anything caring and preciously composed)

 

Butterball,
I don't recall Theodore wanting me to cook with oil, so come dinnertime I'll use you like scoriatic mortar, pasting together our tongues and thighs

Butterball,
I have regrets, because the 'Earth Balance' should have been knived long long ago in a land far far away from us as we were together

Butterball,
in my forehead, these ones, these creases certainly do say something real so please do not complain too much

Butterball,
when we pour you into the cast-iron pan and let you cool, you are so cool now

Butterball,
making my moral pangs now justly embodied because you saw him invite "an incarnadine snap-shelled and skirted glass of olive oil into the attic of my mind's poetical space, specifically the plumbing which is now only a little clogged," and,

Butterball,
I will show you; but, first let me wear you on the outside of my yellow rain-slicker, the one with all of them buttons running up the front and if I only wore you once would you stay like the sun or would you butterball away, fearful of evoking the cooked-lobster-claw undertones from my skin, like this recklessness saturating or unsaturating that the make-believe polyunsaturated fats of my feminine parts are ready to show

Butterball,
a correlation between carefully placed panties, O, without rehearsal and planning, plotting, plodding, in avoidance, babies, parents asking for a location, still, asking, "Where does a youth's strong arms, shoulders, and nipples go once they emigrate out of our bad romance? What will be done with the windlestraw?"

Butterball,
this was too much for you, my not so sweet but always salted Butterball, so you became my mentor and lover always in the know, "rich is as rich does however much one assigns it value but, " yes, Butterball in the pit of me, you know now, how the girl I lick from my fingertips most, my

Butterball,
my uncooked Gingersnap, my Stomachache, says three-letter-words as a confession of her poetic body, no not that, but her body, she who is filled with blood and flesh and bone and ligament and joint and muscle and tissue and thought and so much pain even though we've kept it all, well, no, not her, but she, she who says words like you, say, pit, and, yes, and

Butterball,
it IS an "I-love-you"

Butterball,
do you even want to know how the world,

Butterball,
and I are now fine with The Butterball Prince himself just having a Butterball feast and how it makes me yearn for my very own butterball Bash-N-Bath?

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