The feast of yemen

Photo by ahmed adly on Pexels.com

 

Watching skin on skeletons row arms like oars to cameras

I am sharing a boy or a girl it is hard to tell my friends

I have fifteen hundred friends and need one now

this sharing of the feast are human cuts

reduced to meat remember the bird,

the patient vulture by the babe

waiting for him to die so it

could pick at its remains.

I am a vulture of rank

the cleaner of dead

come to my feast

hands are cutlery

a cannibalism,

autopsies

of self,

you.

me.

 

 

I

am

hungry

to consume.

I am watching Yemen

it unfolds like Vulture wings –

the concaved ribcage is interrupted

by Jamie Oliver cooking a Christmas Turkey.

These are strange algorithms in stranger times.

I am forced to watch this advert before I can continue,

my hit is registered and Yemen is fed by Jamie Oliver I think

he would like that very much because everyone deserves to eat.

Everyone deserves to be consumed yet who wants to stomach Yemen?

Who wants to dine on eyes too big for sunk in sockets that stare too deep,

into you, and I of the Brexit underprivileged who fear austerity, a Yemenly state.

 

I am thinner today than ever before.

My eyes are fat with the starved.