I see in your body a moist banquet, a loveable feast. I imagine myself a naked tramp, adorned in purloined barber rags, plodding the meringue on grit and vanishing wave, the stink of sour urine and fire walks beside me, through an endless desert, about as wide as it is long pulsating under an oppressive light bulb. With each step I drop into the stinging sand I feel emaciation tickling my toes tempting me to fall wrapping its fingers and slightly teasing me down from the tightrope I walk bare... My thoughts are somewhere finding dreams in the great cloud beasts above me.
The whole world feels like this arid landscape with you not near, as if I was on a treadmill walking on the roof of a dry mouth, moving in place…
I find located in my distant self a being consisting of not one or two selves for the world has become full of contradicting dichotomy, but a manifold being as if I were walking in place on this treadmill and surrounding me, thousands of shadows follow and take shape, mimicking every pace in its own form. These shadows every so often emerge to develop at every life lesson. I will not cease to surprise others and myself. Many use that onion metaphor and I agree but with an onion the more layers you peel and let decay the more towards nothing you become. I like a ball of yarn, unraveling into a solitary string, each fiber one of these selves I speak of, they are born and they grip and tightly weave together to form the strength and harmony of my ideal self, the being I am developing to.
I am a sage to hardship and lesson, an architect in thought and reflection, and this desert wonderer I paint when it comes to intimacy. You are my regenerating banquet and I will feast of your sweets your flesh your thighs your breasts and sweats and lips and neck and hair coveted body. I will nourish myself and grow full again strong and not headstrong from the fibers you show me and in their solidarity we will test the weight of gravity and live free lofty and purposeful. I understand your salts, those bitter morsels, which make your temperament and take them in grains, for I have wounds that couldn’t handle the sting.
I believe people are only as strong as their appetite. The more they get there fill the more they fall asleep full and never wake up.
jerome moore's Other Poems
Read this poem in other languages
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
Comments about this poem (Banquet by jerome moore )
- There Is Nothing But Darkness, Ronell Warren Alman
- Unpopped Corn Kernals and Cold Hearts..., Monk E. Biz
- The Full Moon, Vigna Mukund
- Adrenaline is my Mistress, Hayley Lewis
- Love is a Liquid ~~~ vs.33, Monk E. Biz
- Incarnation, dr.k.g.balakrishnan kandangath
- Eternal creation, ramesh rai
- Lomp doch fijn besnaard 2, Madrason writer
- Treasured days..., David Lessard
- The body of my Temple lays unswept;, David McLansky
Poem of the Day
- 04 Tongues Made Of Glass, Shaun Shane
- The Road Not Taken, Robert Frost
- Sonnet 43: When most I wink, then do min.., William Shakespeare
- Still I Rise, Maya Angelou
- Phenomenal Woman, Maya Angelou
- I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings, Maya Angelou
- Invictus, William Ernest Henley
- Annabel Lee, Edgar Allan Poe
- Dreams, Langston Hughes
- Fire and Ice, Robert Frost
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)