The Shit of Adim Witt

I can’t forget where I left my face.
All scraped off in her “do it” place.
Softly squeezed into a gooey paste.
Served w/spit on her dinner plate.

She meticulously works to consume my face, 
Gorging herself on my gaudy buffet.
Savoring the flavors that I articulate.
Smacking her lips with an Antoinette grace.

Spiced & smoked & sautéed, my face.
Wonder exactly how I really taste?
Shitty, me thinks, like the words I create.
Wanton imprudence is always half-baked.

Perhaps that’s the reason she needs my glaze.
She hastens to make it,
      Squeals when it sprays.
I’m enslaved by her love of my glaze.

I can’t forget where I left my face.
I’ll stitch it back on at the end of my date,
& examine them creases that I cannot erase,
The erotic consumption of my latest mistake.