Story: Found running loose in Martinez, California. Hit by a car, suffered broken ribs. Also had mange.
Likes: Staring at his blue eyes. Obviously pumpkin.
This is what you changed me to:
a graypink vegetable with slug
incarnate, spreading like a slow turnip,
a skin you stuff so you may feed
in your turn, a stinking wart
of flesh, a large tuber
of blood which munches
and bloats. Very well then. Meanwhile
I have the sky, which is only half
cages, I have my weed corners,
I keep myself busy, singing
my song of roots and noses,
my song of dung. Madame,
this song offends you, these grunts
which you find oppressively sexual,
mistaking simple greed for lust.
I am yours. If you feed me garbage,
I will sing a song of garbage.
This is a hymn.
Saturday, November 6, 2010
10:16 PM Marji Beach