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