Sausages on the barbecue (eavesdropping)

This smell is divine, a spell captivating my mouth, causing it to gush its lust. An eager impatience arrests my hunger and magnifies it, humanising the demon inside.

Is this fair, is this right, that these banger sheaths are too pink, too raw? Too bad, you say!

What sadistic nonsense is this? This teases my instincts and scoffs at my misfortune. I am left dejected and without a morsel to ingest.

I imagine the wieners are live pigs, lying upon this scorching bed, squealing and writhing in agony, spitting globules of swine blood from their squinty eyes.

Did I feel guilty for their slaughter? Hell no! I have a hunger that is manically insatiable, a need that only pig flesh can satisfy.

Over and over, I hasten my actions, rotating those beasts, allowing the flames to taste their flavour, their succulent porkiness! Ultimately, I am jealous, for the flames devour what I cannot!!

Hear the family’s cries “FEED US! FEED US!” they chant! One by one, in a queue they receive a sausage in a bun, a sausage on its own, with mustard, ketchup or both. Finally, my chance has come, my moment of glory, to eat the meat from this feast! I look down and there is one celebrated, magnificent sausage left, a king of all sausages, a fat and gloriously sausage, glistening proudly in this evening’s sun….

...a little tap, tap on my leg? I look down at my young son. He has an empty plate and a hopeful expression…..Sausages on the barbeque, no more!

M. Moran

09.06.08

Authors note: I attend a poetry workshop and this is my homework. We had to write a piece on a snippet of overheard conversation. I heard ..sausages on the barbeque..

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