reviving the lost... with ceremony

This bowl of sandwich cake is leaving me longing. Delights need to have format, maybe. Encountering sadder poets furnished in stoles and khaki, their fingers drenched in mouth-type spittle, kicking kittens for kicks - these are not suitable advisors to meals. There I am, plum-eyed, bush-bearded, wistfully enchanted by their doughy concoctions. Featuring mealy wheats in textures resembling mulch, plopped in thin milk butter, the scent is of the elderly with accents of wet wool. "Gimme!" I squelch, busting my blouse buttons in retching slut-heaves. "I Need!" I mew, a rabid ocelot at the kill. But my gorgings only soil my whiskers and clog my delicate teeth spacings. They do not fill the hole. They do not fill the spaces left in me by my beloved Latrina, choked/drowned 2 days ago this week in a field of picnickers' babies' blown bubbles. I miss her robot limb, her ragged capes and draperies... I miss her plumpness, her juggling and her photos of rabbit vaginas. "All the poet gruel on earth won't bring her back," they are telling me. Still, I must try.