We, the soft bodies,
are made to rotate upon the stick-
to brown evenly,
until each angle,
fries crisp and neat.
But lethargy ingests,
with considerable quickness-
impishly dipping the bowl.
O, Cannibal,
you fully Ex-pand,
slurping cruelly from the breast-
you, the weightless beast,
bending, conforming with the heat.
I adhere to you, articulate,
only to gargle the strange meats
that are now
freely offered to me.
But with chops blotted,
I, the peckish one, am served cold-
refusing to warm the plate.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
o it's harsh sounding barren in a way wow please post more poems! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Lylyanna