My veins are sausages filled with the starchiest of loves.
Grains, scabs, lymphatic fluids,
Chunks of your lipstick, my mother's hips,
Relentless idiotic future, some tarty past,
Sealed with the vacuum of my absent father.
I stare at it and smell it from above,
And smash my head against the plate,
With closed eyelids and eyeballs rolled into my skull,
Chomping, frenetically, slurping with my tongue, the tastes.
Please tell me that this hurts me,
I need to know,
I'm distant from the mourning, from the dawn, wallowing my tongue over this messy delicatessen.
Slurping it all, I need to know, I need to know.
How sad and I leave nothing, I slurp it all.
My armless head, thick sweaty neck, the tongue spilled out over the plate.
I try to rest in my acidic state, yearning for not knowing, between hiccups, my comfort zone, within my spleen.
