This is the womb
an imploding star
pulling within my essence
gripping my cock
I am all but memory
walking in the rain
the sound of subway tracks
moaning hum
tick of old fashioned clocks
grandfathers
hands
should I lay my body
there on the kitchen floor
cold metallic grates
mortuary song lists
where I gave birth
to nothing
rip the baby out
I ripped the baby out
placing roughly
on the hard thick
wooden table
around the limp body
a circle of six chairs
six bodies six mouths
waiting patiently to feed
to devour the brain
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