They say that it’s healthy to stay hungry, to let the bowels remain empty, to peruse hunger. To growl. A sleeplessness digests in the light of night, a link to resurrection.
Dreams leak into necrosis as we figure out our absence.
Hungry, I cower and eat the words whispered into me. One hand on my ass the other sprouting tentacles eating whatever is left in me. It’s all a trivial trick of matrimony.
A poem about the moon and the sky appear to be the beehive of whatever tree is planted, food is all I think this means, a portion of what you have done and a little bit of what I let be. Hunger is a game of switching seats, hunger is a game of sleep.