Metabolism Poem (Fog)

rating: +10+x

Amsterdam is in a fog. Everything swallowed alive.

At night that haze eating light swells swaggering

upon spheres of space, churns all cement and graffitied walls

into their gradients, black. Out like first photographs


on antimonied sheets, the kind beams embed

in the scratches over an eye. See that grid of points

out over the tracks? Once they were windows. Now bulbs of

shivering grey pull each soul an inch out her body


every voice carried further in acid and water. I walk this street. "Pervert! Whatever,"

some passerby minnow cries. Does he know? How often I think

of eating; of you; of eating him; it eating me; your art; a pit;

a hemp purse; unripe quince. Before my birth: "Man, am I tired


of not being eaten." That's what you said too, then you gathered

your red fibers and cooked up sinewy vessels; you pressed the glow out of you

like a penny in the night sky. You made meat-paint of cherries; that's what you did,

then zygote, art, body, like produce—alive. Now you go swim in this night.

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