Art made of colonized flesh turns
herbivores into carnivores.
Braggarts become lousy fetishisers

the feast of cinnamony ribs, a taste of
knives on their delicate
taste buds — bloody masochists — and
terrains that house blood-soaked rivers

of ciscoes
(they also like everything that starts with cis,
like cists, like cislunar),

and they fetishise altars made of the bones
of people who don’t have anything that
starts or ends with cis inked anywhere

on their bodies — no, not even the crotches or
clothes — and these altars are themselves
sacrifices and the gifts are born out of the
girdles worn by those bones that danced

in the stellar fields of ripening pomegranates,
in the cacophonous markets made of their sweat,
in the leaden houses painted a pretentious white,
in the closets that bred asphyxiating cobwebs;

but those gifts are only for the owners of those
altars — the colonizers — and after they have

colonized your bones
and sent your flesh to sawmills,
they will come to lay claim to your art since
a tenet of colonialism — their religion — promises
them more gifts when they adorn those altars with

your art of searching,
of making burrows through your eyes,
of undiscovered lairs.

So do not leave just yet,
do not let your body be colonized just yet.

Write a romantic poem of desperation coupled with
verses of wilful separation to your death.

I promise it would wait, it’s not a lousy fetishiser.
It is, at the very least, a patient lover.

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