With the blue face of Picasso,
he grabs all the strangely dismembered and distorted deprivations,
pressing them like wild flower stencils onto the canvas before him…

His sausage fingers rolling up his collaged carnage cigar… placing it to his clay mouth -
Looking at the skyscrapers outside his house
“I do this for my paradise country…”

On a dizzy permutation of this ferocious routine; he realises - nothing fits -
“I’m a preacher in my own ****…”
But the apple is sweeter because of me…
The pear trees are weaker…
And at least we lost their weeping wisdom
and childish victimisation…

remember…

“We make the system - ” art is meat, art is mickey…

And we’ve shrivelled their fruit to display in exhibitions, give to our children; and to flavour our unique trappings of meat certification…

Shawls of dead child meat
Wielded like salami
His person excited
In deadness and army

Big long ****** **** just speared through a child’s cot....

There’s nothing to say...
In lullaby trauma
They dance like boulders
An avalanche of gracelessness
Bob their own children on their shoulders

The dust the poor breathe in reluctantly
That this systematic, cinematic dentistry leaves...

... chokes to the core
An ocean of innocence strives to be pure
But the big bulldozer bullies
Won’t stop dealing this misery
And moving around dead pieces in their glee

You see... this is it. No discussion, no big debate– no “it’s ****...”                                          
- the truth - no words could ever account for this.

For everything fake -
Let me feel it one last time
Kismet sweet,
Villas bleak
Marble sticky -
Granite meat

Let me **** the vein of glitter streets
Surf the sadness,
Salt rose glass rush

Teddies haunted with softness beyond us
A ****** blue boldness that begged you to crop love -

Titan arum-sea saint
With your blood like rain,
Inhaling all the darkness
Freshly cut grass cane blade;

Remain in light, an amber blaze...
Curtain wall shatter all skies for our pleonectic pace

It’s a cut of prime rib,
that I slice to your size specifications,
served with a heaping side of horseradish.
I hate this ******* clip on bow tie they make us wear.
La Cave. Underground niche joint,
where all the cocktail waitresses and servers wear
******* clip on bow ties.
We specialize in meats and baked potatoes with endless amounts of butter, sour cream and ******* chives.
And don’t worry honey, I’ll be sure to bring you a whole plate full of baked potato sides.
Quantity is very important in La Cave.
The quantity of your tip depends upon it darling.
Sultry, red misted desperate dwelling of men
who dampen even the highest of spirits.
Where is my pronged fork for this huge slab of insultingly low grade prime rib?
It comes with all the sides you could ever want.
No questions asked.
And that **** little honey of a gal, that waitress right over there will cut you off a slab as thick and as cheap as you want it.
Happy Hour can **** it.

Wandering around the market,
Full of nothing and lacking
The kind of humanity I used to have.
My eye caught by the red-pink
Of the raw meat in a glass case.

I found myself staring at it,
Almost a familiar sight.
Thinking nothing of it at all,
I continued staring.
Something about it stuck to me.

The way the white fat ran through
Pink and red muscle tissue.
The big areas of redness struck me,
Slightly jagged and misshapen.
And juice pooling under it.

The animal was given no thought,
Not other than how it served people.
Its body parts were nothing more than dishes,
Ones for the pleasure of the strong to eat.
There were no animals in this market.

Here laid the former cows,
Their parts separated and sorted.
How convenient to be on display,
To be freshly cleaned and wrapped.
No pieces flawed or ruined.

Oh to be a slab of meat,
Nothing of your former self,
Born to die to feed people,
Or thrown out once you've gone bad.
I suppose I am not far from it.

I bought a rabbit from a feed store
He was raised for meat
But I brought him home
And raised him for me
Not to eat but to keep

Part of me thinks that's just as cruel
Poor unwanted, little thing
Just happy to live in my house
He doesn't have the ability to see
How unnatural our friendship is

I didn't save him
But I didn't eat him
So he just exists without purpose
Kind of like me
I think I was also raised for meat

When dinner becomes a dance,
Standing in the kitchen as the clock strikes 12,
Tomato juice dripping to my elbows
Spices spilled over vegetables raw in my hands,
The carving knife wet with sauce
Eating fistfuls of my own hunger and joy
Until I reach the end of that deep and driving primal hole
The meat pads my bones
And fills my aching soul
.
And standing for midnight mass
In the holiest place in my home
I catch my glance in the window's gleam
And am introduced to a woman I've only met
In my deepest and sweetest of dreams

More Meet
Eat the meet and feel well
Get a bad gut do the trots
To the toilet ***** it all up
You ate rancid meat
Or was it poisoned

On purpose as you’re here
An invading army doing bad
Nothing good comes from it
Except dead Russian soldiers
Who ate off meat in rusty tins
Found in a bombed out house

Call it karma for the war
You go there you risk
Not just bullets and shells
Maybe you were poisoned
On purpose or it was an accident

The result is the same
Ill Russian soldiers who puke
Some will die painful deaths
Give those well more meat…

my freezer is full
of vegetables and meat
i wonder what to eat