Throw them
Lead them
The narrative arch of eroticized killing is inevitable,
it even happened.
I thought about meat.
I try to distinguish affection from hand combat as a means to sex.
See it
Refuse to end it
No empathy protects my body,
my organs spill out of intimate violence.
Leave my own senses…
was wrong
was intrigued
The bile spills onto me because I own death
Or because I am not to do anything at the kill
I am so still, clearly violence
And he finds it so cold being equal
Available protections:
- Preclude the camera is actually killing.
- Carry the danger.
- The possibility of poetry about how someone feels.
- Play the instruments of alienation.
Perhaps if I didn’t know how to hand,
how to submit,
how to believe there is,
then
transpoetics 