Of Angels and Pudding

You are as smelly as a lily and as
juicy as a pomegranate and you
taste like banana pudding. NOT
pistachio. Yuck.

That was my old boyfriend.
He tasted of pistachio pudding,
but his love was like the violins of angels.

Banana is my favorite.

You Don't Have a Face

Your eye sockets are worn,
like polished silver spoons.

Your nose, two holes,
with the slightest rill between.

You have no mouth at all. Your
head is as slippery and shiny as
an eggplant— pale, and not
at all threatening.

You blend in perfectly and
are in great demand at meetings
and socials.

A blind woman, greeting you,
screams.