uncooked.

A plum purple stain spread evenly on the fresh white board.
Tender with pricks of steel spokes and sterling strokes of sharpened metal.

Something raw and meaty like the fat man sitting on the park bench,
reeking of some magic apathy and smiling cherub redening below his pebble eyes.

In the kitchen the knife whistles casually between the thick wet and purple flanks.
They stradle its mirrored finish carefully with a dear sense of destiny clipping their heels.

And we sit perched as baby birds clucking and gurgling with pity in our voices.
The plum purple stain now deep with fire and finely browned, slipped between two pink knobs, sodden lip-like protrusions.

Arms are not meant for stretching or tucking under soft warm bodies at moment's notice.
Legs aren't hardly able to run for miles on sandstone or pavement and clay.

Food isn't meant for tasting, merely sustenance in a world where enough will never fill the empty behind hollow eyeholes,
where rations are much more suspicious than a literal starvation of body and mind.

And how I long for something deep in which to sink my teeth. Deep, dark, devasating.
Rich like chocolate and moneymen, dark as a black, sunning shoulder.

Something substantial and real as tea-drinkers and those who love poetry like tasteless whores--in spite of all our natural realities.
Ten fingers like beachcombers in the world's most naked deserts.