switchblade

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the handles' fake plastic, yet
comely in dragons, the rib's sporting
crossbars to parry the blow
it glitters; it shines:
the neck, burnished, furrowed
it flits in your hand, this cold steel.

slip hickey from pocket,
silk-screened obeisance
infanticide fantasy, wield
closed to my side
one push on my hilt,
deft cracker, slit
cranium
know i deal death:
my erection

Gourmand

I shall eat freeze-dried curds
of lentil and fatty lamb, steamed,
or better: a stew vacuumed
in polypropylene oven bags,
perhaps a repast of collards
and shoulder meat
fit for the gizzards of gods.

Let's teach this broil of halibut
fresh caught last night on Aisle 2,
to sizzle and pop
in its microwave pan
appearance bisque-mocking
the serving suggestion
enraptured in paint
on the lid.

Top it off with a lemon sauce
and, oui m'sieur, it's properly dilled
with hefty doses of pepper tossed
from a plastic beaker
several times warped
by the broiler plate's
convection.