Jun
7
Lunch With Giants
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your words: the tiny barbed pleasures that suck my marrow; suck me like a dim sum chicken head and lick
their lips – chasing what is left of me as I slip down their Chin. You are potent and I’m
your crippled junkie petitioner lying on a blue-rimmed plate: drank down clean, as your ideas/metallic muscles
whirl around my edges like a tongue, looking for a hint of what was there before; finding bones, bumpy skin and
what may have been teeth: tiny and not at all fierce. Not as fierce as you. A mystic, tie-dyed array of light and pulse and fear digs at me, serves
me up on a dish with 5-spice and drawn butter. Clawed open again; waiting for the inevitable crash of china, crunch of bone, the slick sting and sweet methadone of your throat
soothing my finality.