You

wd have my xplosions b
localizd, armed against themselves

prevnting spread
of nsurgency.

The way my bombs wrk is I
set them off bside
my heart & tho I fly apart

& outwrd, flesh of me meeting
flesh of the other dead I'v made

still, I remain focussed
whole.

My heart, once muscle, now
a rapture, rmains.

I can wrk out no
other way

to cnvince you that to contain
me you must rewrite

Whitman, go frward from there.

cannibal thanks

Dear Lord, tonight may we eat
better than we live on fruit hang-
ing healthier than should fall, and in her

we swallow, find grace. Saner
men than we have sucked mother-teat
only to tongue flesh there sweet enough

to draw fang. As we cut deep
this pinkish lung and fork it
toward our hunger, let us claim our

wrong, knowing all rites are flung
up to God, that this same abhorred
trait was sung into wine and bred

into us by his shining, dining son.

"Ah the creatures, the creatures, everything has to be explained to them." from Endgame. Beckett.

Trying, tiring.

(... it is not so much that women are witches, but that sorcery proceeds by this way of becoming-woman)... from a thousand plateaus. D&G

Not so much.

"The cut worm forgives the plow." Blake, from Proverbs of Hell.

Why? Procreation.