Sundays, after beatings He ignites the torrid grill Browns the butter Smacks and beats the eggs, Ick! the shrill of boils in the scramble Spattering at every turn When he macerates those yolks; Chunky bangers begin to scorch And the tawny smoke that rises from the fry Sheaths his face. Greasy sweat drops begin to strain from his enlarged and scowled pores; A gooey film of grime and slime Skims down and plunks into his fry, Froth around the mouth He slobbers more and primes his grub one final time. He crams a pile on to his fork Without inhaling he swallows and He gobbles His jowls are brimming Will he choke?
I use metaphors and imagery to describe raw emotion and real-life experiences