|from Self-Titled: Eleven
"Put your hands where I can see them," said the blind man.
And he picked up his ham
Mer and pulverized all my fingers. When no one attends this party, what will be done
With these eight meat lovers' pizzas? The question,
Rhetorical as Miranda rights. Put your
Hands where I can taste them you leprous freak, you pulverulent delicat
Essen. I see men as trees, walking. An arbor
Ist ushering. But with every laureate
Blacked out from pain, who retrieves the scattered dactyls?
The blind man questions authority, rhetor
Ically. Is heaven as lonely as it looks, officer?
How the fuck should I know. A show of hands please. The gavels
Descend. Ye lovers of meat, behold thy resurrection, thy
Resuscitation. How many fingers am I holding up? Rhetorically.
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