Mitchell's Inn

Black pudding
in the frying pan
and morning beer
in my hand.
The eggs are
out of date
but I cook them
anyway.
I cook them with
the grease
of the bacon.
I am half-dressed.
The fat spits,
splashes my bare chest-
It burns but
it doesn’t hurt.
Breakfast is ready soon
and my stomach,
empty,
to be a full one soon.

Now gone are
the days when
I’d spit back
at the fat
great globules
of spit
right at
the bastard fat
right at
the bastards sat
out munching
on my food
and fussing
because they
are fat
and not yet
satisfied.
Never satisfied.

My spit tastes
good in their
breakfast,
but nothing
tastes quite like
their coffee-
no sugar,
no milk, just
sweetened
with my seed.