the supplemental taste of me —

weak organic acid bites their tongue.

you don't need to live to make 

someone else react, 

a product to the consumer.

bitter aftertaste, like small dogs nibbling an ankle

gone with a kick. like soft flirtatious ringing

in eardrums, gone with a voice.

bitter is something to put up with,

when it is gone the papillae dulls.

they melt somewhere into the cotton plane covered

fully. exposed fully to my awakeness. wrap them 

in the sheets to make sour candy. i reel

like a lemon sucked dry.

 

sleep is regurgitation, subjectively.

revival, objectively. i regain acidity through their 

resting body. the body forgets my taste. bitter is a

palette cleanser. unaware of transformation.

squeeze and consume, repeat. the litmus of 

the night is still red. fluid expelled from the body vessel.

the soju watches in a green glass bottle, with shame,

sullying near a tractate on taoism; acidity contradicts, 

a static tv drowns me. the fruit of my being rots.

object stales among objects in objectivity.

subjective perception is dilution. the consumer lies next

to me, dismissing my conscience. objectify, i am acid again.
 

fingers shuffle through

darkness, cotton sheets. gap. wood table. glass wall

soju swept off nightstand, shattering. eyes meet eyes.

consumer to product. one is used before the verb.

the subject's face dances, angry. i lie still, yellowed.

their faces are particolored. mine

is hoarish. a midnight whore. squeezed once again, 

plea of eros, selfish love.

 

the glory of all fruit is mostly the flesh. pulp

constructs not fruit. an animal desiring fruit.

these animals groan in the metonymic darkness

from between the thighs, never heart. the subject, the peeler.

tear and eat and throw. i feel shame for keeping

my sour blade unsheathed, to be the cause for

their appetite, and loss of it

upon full consumption.

 

but what happens to my own skin? for i know

the only sourness left in me is the mind 

of a fruit, to reflect sitting still in a dump 

or counter until rot. to all broken lovers, how we

wish now it was so easy to consume something other

than our own bodies. how can i quickly learn and

rehearse this bite, which i so often allow upon

my own pulp? why is the fruit of my being constructed only to give?