Here lies Samson

His meaty Samson macro hands didn’t know

what his delighted Delilah tastebuds

and nano fingertips were doing

to his sinewy sueded nano tatting,

fractal lace membranes, and

rosy beaded-curtain synapses

drawn and undrawn with nods,

eurekas, sighs and shrieks…

the deep revelry of comfort food.

Every day an orgy, Delilah danced

and served as cook and pantry slave

smearing his cellular raiment

with grease, butter and broth,

then gummed it with sweet syrup

and fan dancing Crystal Light feathers.

While he ate and drank and smoked,

she stabbed his cirrus nerves

with fermented knives and

smoked the sails of pale lungs

buttressed by breath until they

hardened and oozed with tar.

The other mourners and I

file past him and think, “Such

magnificent ruins

of a man.” Whom I also call

everyman who ever had a stroke

and collapse over their own pillars,

too early with boots on and taking

their inner Delilah along.

P.S. I’m fixated on the topic of food and mortality.Just trying very hard to see if I can make poetry out of it.