Sex Bacon...

Who needs crack when one has bacon?
Sex bacon is at best a dripping, sizzling, crackling,
Smoky orifice jamming mess,
Artery congesting hell in a pan,
Accompanying morning smells with coffee and ciggy in hand.
That surely will cure a Bohemic Anemic,
When lost is newBuddha Kerouac who died for our sins,
And forgotten Coltrane blowing the love supreme resurrection,
And misplaced Ginsberg parting the angleheadded hipster sea,
Because dripping fat is where it’s at,
Greased and sliding chewy salty against the grind,
The carcinogeous crusty clogged portals dull the senses,
Like when alcohol do what alcohol does,
A deterioration not at all so purposeful,
Like when you forget who you fucked today,
And how you fucked them,
And you lose your creative fuck ability,
And everything is lost,
But bacon.