this is the color of my innards

and it just has to wake you up at some ungodly hour
this feeling of compromised stomach linings
and churning acids of boweled conception
and it makes you think to the last thing you just had to
stuff in your word hole-
that intake and output valve of the wretched and loud-
and you remember cheeses built from only the finest
of manufactured oils and saturated fats
and of beef cut from the purest cows
in all czechoslovakia
drenched in sauces that would make even the most hearty
of french chefs faint.
and you wonder why? and what?
what on earth would make you imagine
that this delicacy of only fourth world countries would go well
with the amount of booze
and tobacco
and two stroke fume that are firmly entrenched in your
skeletal ecosystem as of this moment.
and why on gods green earth do people even consider
these moments of dabbling in the black arts of epicurian wizardry
such as
the super roast beef three way
or the steak bomb
or the lobster roll.
and i wonder this as my homeostasis bobs and weaves
to the nonexistent wallpaper that seems to have anchored itself
to the synethesiac colored and currently unfixated walls of my room.
as demonic grumblings erupt from the vesuvious
that is my now violently emotional guts.
as tears of fryer grease
slowly make their way towards my outstretched tongue.