abstract
It is finished:
Flesh eggs hang pendulously.
Soul meat sandwiches for lunch.
Vegetable ambiguity.
Black, dried sphincters.
Chora of catacombs refracting,
Soul meat on the grill,
Smoking for punctuation.
Stench of recognition,
Repeating eternally,
Until the meat is cooked.
Now, we meditate in earth-light.
Celibate history.
Unsex me now through magic.
A pillow in the mouth.
I agree.
Don’t you?

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