Lunch

 

Soft and succulent,

As teeth crunch down on the solid skin.

Molars pulverise the delicate flesh,

Reducing it to digestible mush.

 

Crunching the cylindrical delight,

Allowing it to melt.

Then slowly slide down,

Into the pliable tube.

 

Bubbles of sugar,

Rush up the nasal path,

Stinging as a bee,

Until they reach the sockets.

 

Water flows from eyes,

Not tears of joy or sadness;

Tears from the extremes,

Of the tinned water.

 

By Becky Clemett - 16th January 1999

Quench

 

Slow and silky,

It flows down my throat,

Tickling my gullet as I gulp.

 

Quicker now it fills my trachea,

Taking the place of the needy air,

Causing me to choke on it’s taste.

 

Again I swallow,

And after repeating thrice,

The feeling of quench fills my body.

 

So cool and calm,

No stingy throat,

Just moist inside and full of flavour.

 

By Becky Clemett - 12th May 1999

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