The food of poetics and the poetics of food, and not particularly in the grotesque sense but I suppose so, excepting I am less interested in expulsion of said elements and much more concentrated on the ingestion, since words can be like food that is digested but not processed or released, it seems to me, and so the grotesque, so much about the 'ex'-factor, seems to me to play less of a role where one is incapable of removing words from the system by force or otherwise--for even when we repeat them they remain firmly, hauntingly implanted, imprinted on the tongue. Possibly elsewhere. On the hips (which I've heard don't lie--are there then no words there?) perhaps?
How queer. Queer means something you like thinking about a lot, that otherwise seems quite conventional and then on introspection and an indulgence in contemplation appears suddenly wonderfully inexplicable and marvelous unlikely.
Your nominative case is the plate upon which the food of a sentence is carried. The accusative is the salad greens, mostly lettuce, that keep us all reasonable. The dative case is the mound of mashed potatoes with a lot of homemade gravy that you save and savor. The genetive is the hand-made delicate glaze on a froofy desert, that only chef can prepare, and you save for those occasions when you want to impress. Yes. How queer. Some books are like brussel sprouts, or grisly beef, and others like a heavy bread or butter, and you stuff them into yourself guiltily, happily, putting aside that critical palate and leaving not one farthing of grease upon your glass.
Yes. Yes. Yes.