There’s a knife on my hand;
a really sharp one. I use it to rip across the skin, fat and flesh that underlines my bellybutton. I shove my hand into the opening. I grab the gummy content so I can offer it to you. here: take it. smell it. lick it. bite it. chew it. So, whatta you think? What’s that? You don’t like it? Yeah, you don’t... just say it, don’t lie to me! I grope your nausea; it twitches behind your flat face and travels down to your acidity; it doesn't sit too well in your stomach. C’mon! Don’t hold up that pregnant BLERGH! It’s okay to vomit; I won’t love you less for it. ... Now, you! It’s your turn. take it; smell it; lick it; bite it; chew it; so, whatta you think? What? Speak up! ... soundless, eh? Heh, it’s fine I don’t need your words. Your phony nod is enough to anticipate your contempt and your mean tweet; your jealous critique; your authority throwing smugly: YOUR SON IS UGLY! ... Now, last chance. (Flies are about to land and drop their eggs) Quickly! You! take it! smell it! lick it! bite it! chew it! So...? whatta you think? ... No...? Are you tossing it on the ground? Well... at least it tried... after all, poetry is just a matter of trial and error, isn’t it? Might as well just turn my back and walk away carrying my hollow belly. Let the maggots and ravens feast.
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