Wednesday, May 29, 2013

The Metallic Humor Machine

I hold the blade in my metacarpals.
All five fingers severed.
The chef prepares the five fingered stew
especially for you.
As you sit there chained to the table,
you feast on the flesh that falls off
the delicate bones.
I walk over to you and
peer over your shoulder.
Behind the bowl is the rejected
pieces of chewed flesh.
I am angered you did not
swallow my flesh!
I rush for the machete
and lop off your head!

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