Visceral reality
Blood, muscle, and flesh,
All elements of the body
So palpably aware.
A carnal revelation
In litanies of pain
Written by dissection
On cerebellum walls.
So pliable and weak,
So simple to restrain,
So sensitive to touch,
Manipulatable and soft.
Do bones of the starved
Congeal into demons
To slake their thirst
On our living blood?
Do hordes of average men
Yearn for satisfaction
In the sight and feel
Of our mangled forms?
Should I desire much
To be just a ghost,
An incorporeal dust
Just floating alone?
And how would that soothe
The screaming I hear
From a younger sibling
Whose cat ran away?
