I look up to the skull
above where I sit.
It was a gift.
I imagine it covered in flesh and fur,
fuming hot, wet, viscous bad breathe.
Chewing it's own shit for the fifth time.
Waiting to fuck a blindfolded dairy calf.
What a life.
What a death.
Horns and snout.
Sex on leather seats.
A carcass fleshier than a centerfold.
Pick at the meat between your teeth.
Boil the bones into glue
and hang the horns up high,
stretched out like a crucifix.
What a life.
What a death.
What a gift.
And every day,
it hangs above my head
as a reminder
of what had been.

narrative poem written on 03-06-2016 by: on mattkane.com
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