Tags
gnawed, gnawing hunger, numskull, poem, Poetry, poor passions, sonnet
To suck. To feed. To gnaw on a deranged
teat. It’s been years since I’ve felt that panic.
Oh dear. I guess it can’t be helped. How strange
just how consent comes in comics. Graphic
grubby, voracious and somehow safe. No
matter the kink. No matter the hunger.
Pity poor passions, the one door I know
that the gods speak through. I still remember
all their voices. What else will dementia
grind down until I’m ravenous? roughshod?
stripped of bliss? A hungry ghost that nothing
will fill? Desires numskulled by trauma?
Numb. Skull. Panic. The urge to be gnawed
to the bone. The urge to do the gnawing.
