Grey skies this morning at the meet market,
and I've become the cruelest of butchers
the most savage of peddlers
the most seductive of merchants.
Give me a face: I'll give you a price
that's all I let you become:
pretty wrapping paper and stickers.
Thank you, I'm sorry. and
Cha-ching. 4.25 for Stew Beef, aged 21.
Bells.
Evening Vespers,
Nightly whispers.
I wished for change,
and now I've got it.
not necessarily what I meant, but
it's more than enough to buy the cement
to seal myself off from your tears
as you leave this sterile store
wanting more, more and more.
When did we let our hearts get so heavy?
I feel my teeth chewing on your tender tendons
and I remember that your strain
becomes my scarring pain,
not the pleasure I sought
last night in my flight to label
this boyish, bovine fable.
This is my beef.
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