Ham
And as I walk I see a man, and as he walks he shovels ham, he shovels ham into his mouth. He is a man. He is shoveling ham. With a great fist he furiously wallops it, into his mouth, the dark abyss.
That is one desperate mouth/abyss, no gob, gob, it’s a gob. That gob, it seems, has been aching…no…burning…no…yearning for that ham for some time. A whole packet of premium sliced ham, gone in an instant. There can’t have been any other time in history that pork and gob met so quickly.
About the Creator
Emily Sara Andrews
Performer, Artist, Arts Facilitator, part-time poet and occasional spinner of yarns, not necessarily in that order.
Living and working in Stoke-on-Trent she takes inspiration from the wild, the weird and the ordinary.
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Tube Stuck. Warm. My arm extends above in an awkward salute to the transport gods. Headphones press uncomfortably against my neck. My only comfort switched off. We are Over-populated today. Everyday? You spit at me with your words. I cannot move. Move me if you want, that’s the only way we’ll get to a different point.
By Emily Sara Andrews6 years ago in Poets
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