The Box Spring Hog

Had to write an iambic pentameter for poetry class. This is my first attempt at writing a poem of any sort.

 

A pink, pallid beast strewn over grate

atop a blackened hole belching grey haze.

Tempered coals and ashen oak smile and glow

while skin crackles and sings with certain glee.

The daft caretaker has lovely rapt aim.

A clumsy mop glides across ruddy flesh

that’s soaked with booze and sweltering fruits.

Twelve hours past, well it’s the cleaver’s turn.

And pick the bones, disregard etiquette.

That charred bit is a southern sacrament.

Reviews

[hey]

i really like this. this part is my favorite

Twelve hours past, well it's the cleaver's turn.
And pick the bones, disregard etiquette.
That charred bit is a southern sacrament.

Reminds me of this album I used to listen to every day for about a month a year ago.
The flows somewhat awkward, but I did read the note about iambic pentameter and I understand.
I really like the words though, and I'm kind of uncomfortable with structure anyways.