Picking at skin and orifices,
Pushing out and pushing away waste.
Since it is waste to the animal,
It is loathsome to the animal,
And the animal doesn’t want it,
Doesn’t like it, doesn’t like to be
Made to think about it in a poem.
Na mervell is, ane man be lyke ane
Beist. Not a bit. You can’t make meaning
Unless you drag known language through it.
You have to match the word to the word
Matching the memories in your head,
Some of which you’d rather stayed unsaid.
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