Hunting
Prime
is the best, she said, referring to meat–
the
marbled fat external: to be devoured
and
render the internal juicy-fruit accessible–
as
though she would never be spayed in a cage,
prodded
to produce mammary novelties
for
beefy beast-children, before her slaughter.
Avian
spectators, proud to have devoured
the
remains of our mother, appetite a cage
of
alarming carnage and keyed with slaughter.
Yes,
the keys are beaks and claws with novelties
like
lungs and balls of eyes readily accessed
if
you can fly to achieve rot: precious meat.
Oh,
how silver wires cross the sky in a cage
pleasing
her and I with visual novelties
of
enslavement to the production of meat
while
humans are equally accessible.
Of
course, her burning blue eyes justly slaughter,
just
as my fevered lips women’s meat devour.
Now
she’s left; my memories are novelties:
alive,
laid on fire, and too accessible.
I ought to be prime so I could be devoured
I ought to be prime so I could be devoured
in
pointillism, for section and slaughter.
Alas, I’ll be with vultures huffing for meat
Alas, I’ll be with vultures huffing for meat
escaped
from hellish knives: fruit out of the cage.
Day
kills competition accessible
to
the cuisine I’ve found; someone’s slaughter.
As
if insects obey the sunlight’s cage
and
respect their moon-darkened meal of meat
rolled
into shit by the time they’re devoured.
Dried,
I sell them in bulk as novelties.
Alone,
I’ll watch and wait for still-slaughter
like
birthing without death: cycle of meat.
Where
new nutrients are gored novelties
and
emptied into my stream, once devoured.
Alone,
I found round keys for a square cage
that
made my mind’s blue waves accessible.
Together
we devoured us, the novelties
of
a cage of anonymity, accessible
to
slaughter us if we’re the right cut of meat.
-Grant
Durando
