the flesh that allegedly regenerates every

seven years is beginning to feel too taut to bear

the strings of sinew that bind me together giving

under the pressure of everybody else’s significance

the pressure from grey matter pulses surges

as though my eyes will divest and dematerialize

nothing feels sacred not a rich soul to

occupy my time it claws at my entrails until

my cavity brims with kidney soup beans  and viscera

noodles hunger satiated by disquieted

juncture of abominable

entities i’d rather not familiarize