see, it's only a rare fetish,
when feasting on industrialiaed
nutirets
  bound to chicken muscle...
i probably couldn't
distinguish between
         a human, or pork liver...
which is not said with
any invocation of spite,
       just a: kiev cursiosity...
human muscles are
attached to the most ackward
canvases of the culinary tradition....
all the inner-organs?
    i'm hardly discriminating
the possessing aspects of:
brain akin to cauliflower
sponge...
       murky fluff...
                        but there is
a meditation when scratching
         poultry clucking...
               you almost want to
eat man, to taste what he eats...
   because the environment has
become so...
                            sterile...
so safe, functioning
         and a welcome routine...
the protein higher-ground
grieving bone?
     not to my taste...
       but the inner-organs...
the tender-bits
akin to a heart or liver?
   i could consider myself
a fervent
first convert to
bypassing the christian
poetic...
and taking to a literal
interpretation of:
       eius corpus:
                  non mea culpa;
inner bit
bilingualism
of pork...
      when enjoying
a slab of liver...
           pure proteins
and the awkward cutting
of limbs?
   i agree...
                horrifying...
the soft organs though?
can't argue...
      getting kicked
in the ***** at
               an shitō-ryū class?
   i.e.:
              shee-too:r'ý:ooh...
shouldn't exactly teach
your whittle euro: *****
to kick teenage boys
       in the *******...
      go back attempting
a contemplating
a spring blossom in
the ****** fest of tokyo...
you ocotpus squidge-eye
fork-in-a-windmill
              "wiseman":
much sooner found
jerking off
   a giraffe neck
      and counting doots.
*******-sand-******:
******* hubris of
     crafting the idea
of cement
  with counter
     calcium in:
   harking spit...
                                 no...
not really...
               play along...
          i am trying to forget
the thrill of the thought of killing
you.