Moral Perfection needs to be precise:
Each piece
requiring of its creator,
an ounce of blood.

Trash and imitations
are made of sweat.

I want not;
what oozes so freely
from your glands,
needing mere effort.

Give crimson!
Strike a knife
across your flesh…

Bleed!
Take solace,
for your form is incompatible
with the sciences.

Spume me not logic;
for art requires
one’s impetus passion.

-Magic Israel