Turn Me Into The Prey You’ve A

Might as well string me up by my hind legs split me open from navel to throat there’s no other place I’m more intimate than in the slaughterhouse— splice my hairs with an athame— turn my lungs inside out flapped open like a lone umbrella collecting a downpour of duress from your butchering. You’re a Barvarian mountain hound salivating at the mouth, and I’m the red velvet mule caught in your overbite— run your meathooks down my trachea out the sternum— fill me with atlas stones and your grizzly appetite. I promise I won’t grunt and squeal when you burn my remains— a simmering potpourri by the roots of your favorite hickory.