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Spitfire

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Spitfire

Meat Maker

The dull thud of packing meat.
It's my bare fist beating meat.
I'm a meat eater and meat is me.
I'm a meat eater bearing recoiled red teeth.
With veneer forget-me-knots.
I'll always be a part of you.
With born again birth rite.
Our baptismal names we lose.
A soul's exit from a food source is quick, painless, and without force.
I'll pick up the scent; i'll ride the rail.
And it's easy hunting along blood trail.
It skinned my life.
It saved my hide.
It drained my fluids.
And carved out my insides