A Dirty Poem

This morning, the kitchen smells like potatoes.

Mouldering earth in a Cavendish grave.
I do not open the cupboard;
Light makes the monsters real.

Unseen, inside the damp sack, blind, white eyes reach with tenticular stamina; silent, and raw.

Pickles taste like vinegar.
Old wine is vinegar.
Rotting movie reels turn to vinegar;

The crotch of a bitter whore is vinegar.

I wince, reach into the bag, and pull out six wrinkled grandmothers.
I slice off their sightless eyes, fry them, and sprinkle the acid on my Cupboard Monsters.
They are defenseless, on my plate. I soak them with the blood of tomatoes.

Salt.

The vinegar on them, I taste 1940's Technicolour movie reels. It's good.

But whores will always taste bad.