Meat Carver

In this tactile antiquated impulse
You revealed yourself
more clearly 
than rolling in ink;
naked, downhill
That's all of me right there
in dusty charcoal; in stinky ink,
laid out
In this pinked sheer reaching hand in;
shoulder deep darkness
grasping at something detaching
too small

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 
you say:
don't give into the hype
And offer me the gilded opportunity
“stability”;
outside of all reality.

Poignantly
then, saying, that I could be the one qualified to cut up the animals,
for the rich people to feast on.
Incompehension rises; 
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.