Blood pudding Pat-I-cake
Attrition carvary. Slices of destiny. The lump in my throat, dorsal dichotomy, cutting the gloaters gate.
Offal surprise, head-hunted, lip sync, yet often chastised.
Writing off flesh thats deader, electrically, prime cuts, dripping.
Smoulder the bio-mechanical activity. Smothered in butter, ligaments stutter.
Close off reaction, seared with sneers.
The meat that you calved from my thorax, blunt pen life strife. Hacked job.
Disappearing, now barbecuing quesadillas filled with my discarded froth.
The corrupted void, macerated carnivore, kept me alive. The carp tail thrashing, remorseless in punishment. Piquancy prickles perambulate in that empty womb cavity.
Still neon lit, but greening with the onset of algae’s stagnancy. Pregnant with ideology. Philosophical Anthropology. Seriously? A study species.
You stole optically, the stencil through which I view beauty. Others features, whist visibly pretty, none, but one enlightens me. Need to be free. Bound, now a congealed lump.
Heart shape, cookie cut blood pudding accompaniment. A compliment strewn on the griddle shelf. Patti-cakes snake.
About the Creator
Paul Beckett
I’m a writer, horologist & joy filled fantasist. Reality to me is plastic. I’m fascinated with time, quantum physics, analogue and fashion.
My writings at least 69% autobiographical, often 99%
Fav:Johnny Panic and the Bible of Dreams- S.Plath
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