You promised to send me your feet.
So, where are they? Them not
Bloody Neil Armstrong feet — so.
Where are they? The flesh awaits.
Desire, pain, constipates.
The lamb’s they call the chops
And this feeble flesh and tissue
That walls an otherwise spray of blood
Can be sawed, if not thawed
Or had raw. Depends what your hunger affords.
I prefer to be the fish. On the sand.
A footless creature with a tail to wag.
By nature, taking nature for a fag. Only
Nymphs had feet in these watery climes
In the worst, but not in the best of times.