it’s cozy, safe and warm.
So they say.
Something like a sanatorium
for fanatic manikins.
But I don’t buy this.
Both my eyes have seen
this mantle trailing
on its own.
No wonder
it’s the choicest tablecloth
for stains.
I can hear them humming underneath:
“The creed is part of the particular.
What’s common is the sum of stains.
The sum total of all soups makes
aesthetics out of hunger.”
Who has spat in my bowl?
Who has walked in my soul?
Who has slept with my dreams?
Who has crunched the twilight’s glass?
Who has swallowed my hope?
Who has shoved his hand down the bird’s throat?
Who has fed with flesh my angel?