On Mechanically Separated Chicken

Good, it’s still raining without preamble,
without the usual hush or lull or fire schtick
in the dark of established ritual.

Naked, there are several things wrong with this picture–
for one, I’ve never been keener on that piece of me
being squeezed through the rigorous training
of a trim sterling spout;

the ecstasy, is inspired (no doubt) by the busy laboratory
of machine elves at work behind eyeballs and brains
to sex your salivate glands and convince you
you’ve got black friends

all lovin’ it unconsciously

when the rain speaks timidly of we.

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