Best Served Hot


With just her lips

as weapons,

she molded

endless, doughy

deep-fried rings of “no.”

Offering the word up,

right off the belt.

Grease spitting,

hot and fresh,

biting at fingertips

and tongues.

She knew the recipe by heart,

and fed it to the bastards,

fattening them up,

clogging their arteries.

They loved it.

And never suspected

she was swallowing them



You can also read this poem here