Meaty Meeting

Hello. Nice to meet you, here is my meat. Meaty grinder, meet my grounds. Am I cooked or do I become minced and spoiled by your spoils.

Pop and snap the fats into submission, I surmise my fate. This is a fate-less endeavor as subjects are moving parts in her recipe.

Cooked and mixed into the vat of tasteless ingredients, my opaque secretions fuse into the totality of the world. Muscle to ailment, we become each other’s chow.

Fork. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. Spat. Mess of gristle, heart of spies, we are unappealing. Chomp. Chomp. Spat. Chewy exterior and mushy central.

Through the mouth, sliding down the esophagus and into the stomach, enemy chasms erupt. The host is hosted by our parasitic nature and passing is imminent.

There is no beyond, there is no great realization, there is no evolution or rumination, there is, is. Isness is the mar of breathing.