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Show Pointer You slow thing, whose yips I have no wish to understand, what can you suppose I want from you? My instinct feeds me; I can tooth-and-claw any bone to brightness, I lick the sockets of the air to track my next hunger. But you who of your urges make ideas can't guess why I'd break from your steadfast and dull pettings for the first ripe bitch I smell, my magnificent flanks flexing toward her as you spindle along far behind; why sniffing her asshole wags the stars; • or why I tongue and tongue a sore to keep it raw and salty. My next hunger is me: the rare, incarnate meat of me. O frail, O small, if you want me to love you, take off your muzzle of words and fang this pig's ear of a world, for once your mouth filled only with your teeth. |