Please stop that smacking sound,
like oars slapping water in a race.
Your tongue, pink and slavering, rolls around.
Smell of your breath, just like a hound,
crumbs caught in beard's neglected space,
please stop that smacking sound.
AI
Your lips, a mound where words confound,
masticated spittle leaves its trace,
your tongue, pink and slavering, rolls around.
Stories suffer, their meanings drowned,
in leftover bits my thoughts displace,
please stop that smacking sound.
Beneath your restless, slapping mound,
silence struggles to find its place,
your tongue, pink and slavering, rolls around.
I step back, unbound,
from the chaos of your close face.
Please stop that smacking sound,
your tongue, pink and slavering, rolls around.
.........................................................................................
This poem is based on an old boss who stood too close and always ate with his mouth open - with bits of food in his beard and bad breath too. But as he was the boss I could only plead silently.
For those technical poets out there will notice this is a villanelle.
