Seagulls squawked louder than
a jet engine, as mustard dripped
from the fingers of a giant.
He wore a crown of relish,
pickles and dreams dancing.
In the corner, a man cried
tears of ketchup, his dreams
crumbled like stale buns.
He once believed in miracles,
now he just believed in digestion.
The crowd roared, a symphony
of belches and applause, as
the hot dog king stood tall.
His stomach a bottomless pit,
his heart a swollen balloon.
Victory tastes like brine,
he muttered to his shoes,
a parade of frankfurters
marching through his veins,
each one a triumph, each one
a mystery to his mother,
who watched from the bleachers,
knitting a scarf of disbelief.
She whispered his name softly,
as if casting a spell of love.
Meanwhile, the seagulls
continued their opera,
and the hot dog king
walked into the sunset,
burping the tune of champions.
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Author:
gray0328 (
Offline) - Published: August 5th, 2024 04:47
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
Offline)
Comments3
It must be one of the most obscene sports
A vivid scene with imagery galore but I sense something deeper rumbling in the belly of this glutton. The frivolity and gluttony of society the metaphor grows as we feed our need for entertainment with the competition of meaningless and even harmful and disgusting activities. This is a mystery to our ancestors and older beholders who had simpler gratifications. But then again it could just be a hotdog contest.
Thanks Soren, I was trying to show the obsertity of people cheering gluttony. It's funny but sad. š
Your poem is actually operatic and elegant even though is describing an absurd act (and the sin of gluttony.) Iām loving all the elements like the seagulls and the proud mother knitting from the bleachers. I was entertained and I thank you.
Thank you for sharing your feedback on my work. Im always thrilled when someone find joy and connection in my poetry.
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