A Portrait of Ray

It seems to me you touched a place/very near the heart of the Hun./ Your guesses weren’t examined,/all the while, you entertained a crowd,/you were lucky, in vogue, entertaining at half price./You tamed them, downtown/hypnotized a certain crowd/they wondered, blinking their eyes,/ for just one moment,if it made them flesh eaters like you./Since they had already kept a record; /an electric image of your smile,/your teeth shattered/and that death’s head tattoo/you got the day before you shipped out./ Never looked at it close,/ not at all /never more than a few times,/you collected tinfoil wrappers,/from underneath chrome bumpers,/waiting for a lavish spectacle on the midway./Then, when I saw you again,/in the same place as before,/you confessed to eating flesh./Color of flesh, bloody red,/same as the rouge on the faces/of the women who claimed they loved you./Your eyes,also red./We both know,/the hand really is quicker than the eye./We’re wary of the number of moves it takes,/to heal the scars/those wounds inflicted in the corridors./And I still rifle,/ through the cardboard boxes you left there,/slipping them further along the empty aisle.


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