It is just the beginning.
Like it should always be.
He doesn’t notice his own eyes – He doesn’t hear himself crying.
He coughs up bile
smiles politely, b l o a t e d belly;
Spares no expense to drag his own living carcass to the feast.
He learns that the taste of fear is not nearly as cloying
upon taste buds or across nerve clusters.
The banquet he has built
takes such vulgar appetite
for the endless hour crawl
with intent defined to devour him
No man feels in vain
even that hidden pain from where the tides awake,
the yawning sea of troubled poetic things.
Some hurts have a real voices
and they do mutter inside
where passion shapes
He struggled barely got by, unaware of his identity or the death-like changes around him. He regards shapes and understands erosion.
One smooth shoulder rises above the sea of flesh.
He clenches his gnarled hands, grips tight and peels, so slow.
Delicate and fine because his hands have always understood how clouds should be held; where the cartilage manipulates enough to squeeze or scrape at the tusk wafered white and
taking on a soft shine.
He knows how meat can fill up
and press against these empty spaces or how his anorexic belly can comprehend a world searching for beauty.
Just a gentle reminder of what he was in limbo
parked at the edge of thick Rick or slim Jim,
in this plumpness he’s grown over these years.
Quiet and leaden.
Tended to that very ‘rexia through maturation, perpetual replenishment to which the reply was a loaf of bread, a bouquet of blossoms, part cognac, part finest single malt.
From deep within that grey and sickly mass he found faith in his footsteps.
Vital enough to inherit and subsist all the bruised ribs. Those miniature mesas of crude lines feathering outward. Casually possessive.
He is comfortable now. Worn in.
Going from sapped sighing strings to a strongman’s spine.
half a decade spent mirroring curves.