Gorge upon my flesh.
Heaven knows I have enough,
To spare.
Grotesque truths,
Bubbling in metaphysical cauldrons,
Pounds to spare.
Nothing is cheaper than free,
Even if we still hunger –
For our pound of flesh.
Even if we haggard myriad,
Fail to coalesce.
Eschewing form entirely,
Would be preferable.
“Unready To Wear.”
