the sewing circle

we relish the taking of the knife, the dissection and the following spill; the dribbles of warm blood and partnering vital organs. those blessed shapes, whose rubbery skins instill such awe, yet whose true function we blush before. the process exhausting; what does one discard, and what deserves salvage? I tell you I have seen many a throat pulse and open in near holy ecstasy before a handful of sodden liver and twisted kidney. their trembling hands caress the pulpy mess, thumbnails hurriedly press to slice these skins as the vein and flesh unravel, part, impart themselves, their language in a slippery motion.
and what have we here?
(a mess, that is what!)
a stain rendered on our white pleats and bed sheets, as we stand, sleeves rolled to the elbows, scouring destroyed fabrics in hot suds in basins, how we stomp our feet in annoyance! how we tut at our own callous hunger, like starving dogs, fed and then whipped in the afterthought.

hold it now. hold it in your hands.

see that it is hardly worth even opening the cutlery drawer to find a butter knife
(and undeserving of ironic prose)