• Thomas Roose


Look at this sac of meat that convulses at touch.

It absorbs sound and stagnates energy,

consumes all life and slumps its saggy self

along the granite.

Hardens and softens, commanded by the external.

Its grotesque self doing nothing more than secreting

foul into the air, saturating and suffocating mammals,

forcing them to suck in its microbes.

Poisonous in nature with its volatile patheticisms,

I scrape it off the bottom of my shoe.

Know your worthlessness,

your own destined pessimism and immobile stoicism,

feel your hysteria, be imprisoned by it.

Little sac, cowardly mute.

There is no place for you among men.

There is no chasm in which you can reside.


My fingernails dissolve and teeth dissipate,

all mighty form melts from me.

Organs turn into much as they intertwine and divulge each other.

My mouth inverts, swallowing itself,

making my insides my outsides and my outsides my insides.

I have no more skin as I become

a cytoplasmic puddle of commonality,

bound together by the necessity of function.

My sebaceous self lurches along the floor

as some phantasmal magnetism pulls me towards

the base of your feet.



The solidity before me, the pure stature and form,

everything concedes to this Herculean specimen.

All my cells are screaming to each other now,

injected with desire, they only want to be with you.

They want nothing more than to cocoon you,

emulate your body, formulate your actions,

and know what it feels like. What does it feel like?


A guttural gurgle leapt into my larynx,

as the grass twirled between your fingers,

the wind grazing your hair


meaty string that do


pang! and then my

insides curl.

I open up and you go


the great lament,

eternal spew

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