William James

working class poetry // punk rock performance


Oh, I have lockpicks for hands
and my teeth are hungry. I steal
your portrait from the clouds,
feast on you without care. I know

your flesh is not a meal for my gut,
no banquet for my cavernous mouth
held open and full of flies, but I am
hunger, and all I see is prey. 

The tapping of knives against keys,
how I drag my tongue over glass
to claim you as my own. I take,
            I devour, I consume.



[originally published in everything is mostly water]

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