scrape off the sauce from the chicken
and you will see a bit of the old goo,
lounging across the bird's beyond.
you will see an inadmissible evidence of
celebration - the meat of love.
it will crawl with maggots, of course.
you might even think it a
capitalist overture, but beware -
such beauty is for the beholden.
kiss it or eat it - either way,
i go hungry, forced to scavenge
for my piece of semen at the next
shareholder's meeting, only because
i value the meals that feed my salient horror.
no sense sillying me, though -
bite off the chicken's grease,
get through to the skin and suck in
the aroma of deceased
birds, men, zombies of life.
early '99
(
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