Ren Hang

The guardian said No
You cannot eat the creator body
It is dead and on the highway
It died of fever
It pullulates in the night sky with stars
You cannot see astral bodies do that swarm
But they do
Right under the highway of your eyes
As the boiling blood of the animal
Cools down at last
Becomes temperature of a morning green leaf
An hour     a soft bending green sword
But waits to flare in another
Rash enough to insert a tongue
Keep your mouth      the torture clear
Or it will turn leathern
As this angel's        the one still punting
With something   a mockery of desire
A disease
And I look at the supine creature
It made me hungry    I locked
My lips      held tiny stars
I cleared the barter up