“O, That this too too solid flesh would melt,
Thaw, and resolve itself into a dew.”-Hamlet, Shakespeare
FLESH POT
Born muscle bound
Backboned, map, matrix-
Mother intact,
Into private security firms-
Families, in slums, manors,
Stables, institutions,
To pirates or the pious,
We flourish. Raw teeth, germs,
Clubfeet do not impede us,
Rank and garbled speech fleeting
As tin jeeps, Barbie Doll drama.
Our struggle is tidy, tumult banal,
Pain prosaic, strife fueling ripeness,
Gauntlets passed through swiftly
Until the day we drop. Nominated,
Cornered, required to wither
Under the gun,
Succumb, for we remain
That tender, precious human
Flesh terminators must aim for.
visceral beauty
thank you