Since poetry is the food of the senses,

Cart me loads of wholesome flesh,

Beneath the skin and on the bone

Like a flamingo, I take my time to pick,

And eat with delightful intensity,

The savoury cuts of poetry.

With beaks like quills

Of granite, flint and stone,

In jaws clinching,

Opening to unwind…

Flinging words, like flying feathers,

Cascading down,

With riddled sensuous thrills;

Myriads of cognitive sparks, light up the mind.

Oh! Give me visualized poetry

To make me grow,

A little fat, and a bit, of this, and that;

From the succulent slice of poetry,

Our poetic ancestors left behind.