If you haven’t had your soul ripped apart by poetry,
You haven’t experienced poetry.
If you haven’t had your soul ripped apart by love,
You haven’t experienced love.
Nude ripped, eyes torn, cheeks chewed,
Sitting on cold tiles with sunburnt skin,
I often think of you,
Sitting opposite a flame,
Turning silverware in hardened hands.
You’d never touch the brown flesh on your plate,
You hate the blood,
The carcass smell,
The flaked deep texture,
But my flesh,
You’d take that knife and tear.
Shred through the veins and open it’s vessels,
Flopping, lifeless tubing rubber between gnashing teeth.
The glory of the tormented lovers,
The knife so sharp it rings.
The shrill beneath used china plates.