UnPoetia:Oven Head an Ode To A Great Poet

Poetry for people who hate poetry

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.

Often do I eat, but never do I swallow.

It starts from raw, I heat it until it is cooked

I am not cruel, it is just my purpose –

The mouth of a little god, four-ringed.

Most of the time I close my large mouth and stay cold.

I am green, with knobs. They count up to six.

My shelf is like a part of my heart. But it flickers.

Steaks and Pies separate us over and over.

Now I am a bee-box. A woman crouches down to me.

Searching my reaches for the shelf that is in the way.

Then she turns to those knobs, turning them up to five or six.

I see her head, and swallow it faithfully

She rewards me with muffled screams and kicking of legs.

I am important to her. She breathes deep, and dies.

Tomorrow morning it is her face that will replace the shelf.

In me she has gassed a young girl, and in me her dead corpse

Rots away day after day, like a slice of out of date Pie.

Possibly blackberry flavour.