When The Cow Gives Blood And The

And Tonight Our Skin, Our Bones, That Have Survived Our Fathers, Will Meet, Delicate In The Hold, Fastened Together In An Intricate Lock. Then One Of Us Will Shout, "my Need Is More Desperate!" And I Will Eat You Slowly With Kisses Even Though The Killer In You Has Gotten Out.

Thumbs Grow Into My Throat. I Wear Slaps Like A Spot Of Rouge.

Only My Books Anoint Me, And A Few Friends, Those Who Reach Into My Veins.

Today Is Made Of Yesterday, Each Time I Steal Toward Rites I Do Not Know, Waiting For The Lost Ingredient, As If Salt Or Money Or Even Lust Would Keep Us Calm And Prove Us Whole At Last.

Talk To Me About Sadness. I Talk About It Too Much In My Own Head But I Never Mind Others Talking About It Either; I Occasionally Feel Like I Tremendously Need Others To Talk About It As Well.