And this poem is about being made.
It's called, "Being Made."
To crack.
A femur split and to say wound, versus how you feel wound.
How we all so dizzy in our intellect
let us collect here a prayer forms first in the chest.
What the mouth performs and you think sex and service
all at the same time.
Dirty little id, how the ego wrangles you.
Cheeks puffed in tantrum.
And back to your flesh askew, how burn and sear keep you now.
How all teeth and lashes until surge human, human, human.
Ego believes the chant.
And you, little id find comfort in fuck upon your lips.
The guttural everything.
The less meaning, the more instinct, instinct.
And to even think upon the word, you repel.
What brings a body to tear, to vomit, to swell,
to step out of shell and wink to Freud
badged with middle finger?
To say ego, ego, still and know you are being made.