In this tactile antiquated impulse
You revealed yourself
than rolling in ink;
That's all of me right there
in dusty charcoal; in stinky ink,
In this pinked sheer reaching hand in;
shoulder deep darkness
grasping at something detaching
So that's it? That's my all? Or all that's possible,
for this un-papered thing reaching?
[Never better and not possibly more than you]
You say love and it fell to foot
like Magritte's pipe
You say you know me;
categorized and labelled;
a specific type
When others love me
don't give into the hype
And offer me the gilded opportunity
outside of all reality.
then, saying, that I could be the one qualified to cut up the animals,
for the rich people to feast on.
surely a humor misunderstood,
for richness is varied and as thick;
if you knew me you’d know surely as
It would be more efficient
to be carved myself.