Ode to Annenberg Buffalo Wings

At any given moment, look around.
Big hair. Two oranges. No bra beneath
her cashmere. Lazy orange isn't bound
to peel itself, my nails will get encrust-
ed. Filthy, how he eats--as ribald death
engulfs a corpse, yet jawbones, flesh alike
hold ours in mute observance. Psych

Experiments would still be at a loss
to render his behaviour, if given all
eternity. Those nipples sure look cold.
Don't leave. The trivial holds me in its thrall,
undoing years and reason. Turn. Behold
his monumental orifice, gestalt
of orange sheen and mirthful oily stare.
Give us a kiss;
Nay, gnash that bone
in selfish bliss. Should I pretend to care

What taunting au contraire his aura dares
to implicate? The schoolboy fantasy
I'd soon insinuate on aisle three,
third seat, count left, see what I mean? Am I
among these tables to perpetuate
a race? I'd rather simply satiate

A hunger, notwithstanding my lewd eye
for those things better, or for worse, endorse
a bestial satisfaction. That for once,
we leap past thought. The spice-soaked dribble runs
down past his chin; a carnal scene unfold-
ing in his dreams
of children's screams,
the lickety-split of ribs. Let's drink tonight.
A journey not to anywhere, but here, to fight
some unseen shadow of our idleness.

The chili sauce lacks depth, the skin is sour.
I'd rather stay and chat another hour

But when the frozen yogurt has depleted,
I tire of looking. What could be the ruins
of orgiastic frenzy, merely skeletons.
What sacrificial ritual was completed?
What had been given up? So complicated
were intentions, so ordinary are the ends.