These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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In the quest for delicious survival let us not forget the vein: blue under its gauzes of flesh, it pumps and pulses and gushes red sweetly into the mouth. Sweet fruity and salty with just the right metal vinegar, how it gushes, as if willingly! As if the bruised flesh underneath did not really mind the abuse.
Abstinence is absurd. From whence does meat come save the bleating lamb, the sad-eyed stupid lowing cow? Vegetables die, screaming as they are ripped from the earth, the wheat losing its generations along with life to fill the bowels of some large and powerless being. Hunger is the great leveler, it cuts away all pretense to greatness of soul. Even the virtuous and good hunger, and pay court to the banner of rose and scythe. No arts or works could grow else so let us thank death.
Even the windfallen fruits and nuts are dropped egg and sperm: life that almost was, that was not.
Eat the tender flesh, enjoy the orgy love-feasting on this offering of artery. You cannot live without this suffering. You cannot live without the joy of death.
