Look. Look at the dead matter of the fat self
Massive and bitchy in the pulpy paradox
Of these jellified conch fluids. O. Look
At the groundless illusion of voluptuous soup
Spurting in the gurgle of my mouth. Look
At my mouth like it’s an opening in your chest.
Look. Look as I cut my own body that is you.
Look into the perverse horizon so wrongly
Inside of our beast eyes wounded and blind
Inside of my face. The body surruptating
Its many chunky limbs into a venomous
Illusion, creeping like pasta across the floor,
It clutches the conch, the corpse, the sedimented
Object into its own burrowing and boiling self.
Look. Forget about the gut stuff, the poisonous
Haggis. Look. Forget about the deep fry. The fold
Of fat grows on the exhibitionist pig body always
Already is in this field of violence. Look how the pig
Grows organs that are both its and yours, yours
Especially when heartless, these, my vein visions.