I’m sitting down to eat crow.
The waiter has my mother’s hands.
A crow is sleeping on the sun, it
smells like what heaven tastes like.
A wolf is eating the sound out of my ears.
Osamu Dazai is kissing me on the beach
in Kamakura, while crows dance like newborn
babies in the sea. It’s raining rotten fruit
on the planet, Earth, and I’ve never been
so turned on by flesh before.
An old crow tells me to sink my teeth
in, but everyone knows men don’t have mouths.
You don’t realize how much is fundamentally wrong
with society until you’re in a bowling alley.
The conservative body of my nightmares
is strolling by, winking eight eyes and letting
me know that nightmares make children laugh.
I’m sinking upwards—thinking about you—
forgetting about the crow in my fridge
and the new head it’s currently growing.
I’m going to eat until I’m starving.
My plate opens its eyes and kisses me
hard on the mouth.
There are no crows left in the world.
