Hors d’Oeuvre


I offer my flesh for you to sup on.

I am angel food cake with a hint of charred hell,

But you need to sink your teeth deep enough to get to the good part.

My skin is seared with lust,

And my eyes are seeping succulent tears infused with the wonder of my soul,

Which is expanding beyond the bounds of the shared reality upon which we are collectively drunk.

My fingers drip juices from the most tender part of myself,

Leaving a trail of salt brine and enigma.

If you hold just a morsel of me on the tip of your tongue, you can taste my smell,

And smell every flavour and nuance given me by the Mysteries.


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