Every time your lips move, it’s the same
Cheap cuts. You serve a gruel which seeps
Right through your teeth in trickles. But where’s the beef?
With words so thin, you talk no taste: no pound
Of flavoured flesh; no marbled slab of tongue.
You hand me this cold broth. A bowl without sound.
This is a poem which really needs to be said slowly, out loud, so you can savour the dissatisfaction rolling over your tongue. If someone fails to talk straight – to chew the fat, to sink their teeth into it – spit it out.