A bite of meat
I dare not eat.
I'll have some fruit instead.

No milk for me
Why, can't you see?
I'd rather have some bread.

Faces haunting
Proteins taunting..
I don't want it if it's meaty.

You like to eat entrails
and brains,
A bit like zombies--beastly!

Hormone laden,
Child-sacrifice
to make the thing called "Veal".

I can't believe what you go through
for your tasty high priced meal.

When I read, I speak,
And when I speak, I read
Words rolling off my eyes,
Filling my tongue full of free--
Style rhyming and rhythm.

The canons of thought rolling out with a boom.
Pachelbel changing your direction of flow
Through some Perverse, Obscure, Rehearsal

Suddenly Reversed.

Back where you started,
Starting over again,
With a pen in your hand
The words crowding your head.

Gotta jump and tumble
To the jiggle and flow
Of the individualistic,
Unrealistic,
Even cannibalistic

Creations that grow.
From your stylus,
Rife.

Words.

They're the stuff of life.

Hoarfrost lipstick
Touches not-dead-enough lips.
She's limp and entangled in branches.

Unfeeling fingers
Snap newly-formed buds
Breath puffing and gasping, he glances.

"Pretty...
...my pretty...my pretty cold doll!
See how the snow on her dances?

Almost...almost finished.
Just need the rest...
That last one got covered in scratches..."

Bone-numbing cuffs,
Can't scream from the gag.
She's trembling and sobbing in snatches.

"Shhhhhhhhhhh...

I just need your arms...
such pretty white limbs!.."
He picks up his shears, and advances.

Sliding fingers over alabaster shafts,
crevices and nooks catching at delving digits
as they seek between the ****** ***** of
remov-ed meat.

For before the bones the meat.
And before the meat the scalpel,
Running liquid through the tendrils
with its clever carv-ed lines in the
succulent,
decadent
dead.

The gore on the board.
Seen in rivulets of scarlet,
A tracery of cuts,
Multi-layered and exquisite.

I taste the smell of this corpulent finery.
Hands reaching into the layers,
slick with blood
pulling at the fat.
Sleek and deadly
I ply them, my tools.

For I am the butcher
And you will eat my meat.
Feast upon my carnage,
And leave me with the bones.

And leave me with the bones.

Spectacles slipped into the mine-shaft of mine own thoughts.
What was I doing leaning so far over, looking down the mirror?
To dig them out again, is to reach into my innermost and cry with vengeance sought
after fallen imagery.
A downy trap to trip me,
crawling,
to the bottom of The Well.
It is well-thought to pick up the spectacles before climbing back out again.
Naught but a pinprick of light, a shining shaft,
to guide me.
The crevices of luck leading back to the place where my spectacles can be of use.
Here? It is the climbing, dark, murky
Raiment of the rocks around me.
The dimmest glow surrounds,
and   I
               climb
                               UP

Is it blind to see from different perspective?
Perspective is reality.
Reality is what you make it.
Make it....your perspective.
Respectively we decide to make it ours,
Ours which can't always be theirs,
So should theirs always be ours?
Or is it ok to be blind?
Blinded by theirs, blinded by ours,
Stuck in a single white-rabbit hole of clarity,
Thinking it's reality.
Waiting for the smoke to clear,
So we can see which way was ours again,
So we can see which way was theirs.
Then blind ourselves to every-which-way but one--That One.
Self-blinding vision,
is this reality.
Now hand me the ******* mushroom, please.

Scruffy and unkempt,
The manic look of someone who's stayed up 36 hours.
Still drove 10 hours for a bunch of strangers.
Had no idea what you were getting into.

A chance greeting of "Hello New Friend!",
The taking of an empty seat.
You had never cracked a bullwhip--I know, 'cause you confessed it.
Your mad scientist brain instantly found the perfect chemistry:
Bad jokes and photography.

A bit of flirting.
"I'm not looking for anything right now".
Still talking by the campfire at dawn,
Arms wrapped round for warmth.

You shoved your number in my pocket,
Hot pink marker scrawled on a scrap of paper.

Phone calls and g-chat.
Mostly **** jokes and bad music references.
Some serious stuff too..
Confessions--you're more 'you' around 'me'.

Midnight and both of us complaining-- not getting enough sleep.
Stretching it out until 1 AM, 2 AM, 3...
Left each other with squid-diddled desirous tentacles,
Havoc on our senses.
Senseless at work.

And you're actually being honest--don't have the backbone to lie.
You're not greedy, or sleezy, or trying to use me.
Course, you're killing me with those unsigned divorce papers...

No dreamer--realistic.
But ****** if you don't hit every weak spot.
Walls broken, just the hint of a smile.
**** good thing there's a few hundred miles between us.

Black and hell and triple ****..
..I miss you...
When are you coming back?