So many compulsions --
You can’t stop, can you?
Neither can I, but for me it’s words.
Half as many imperfections
a shatterbox on legs driven by
the rhythm
unavailable
except to display your
soul and behave as if you have not
Fresh and wet
Slipping out of the womb
As a beautiful veal calf
Not yet saved from the slaughterhouse
But too pretty to eat
Just yet
I come in peace
I bear no knife or fork
Only a desire to consume the supernatural
Through the pores of my skin.
Pat Troise
(thank you to Aro0 for the inspiration)
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