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Blood-Red Sorbet

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First, the oysters at midnight of your pickled embryos
and a blood-red sorbet to awaken my memories for the
scent of the flesh decay and beauty for the tongue
and the “moody blues.” A banquet of my obsession
for your thighs, slow cooked venison where the meat
is soft as the willow blows—Pale and tasty of primal
bones beneath the forest floor and the surrender of
your hysteria. 

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