The quality of a human body, the tender flesh of a ripened pear, melts on my tongue and consumes me, like the punch of a party or the knockout of lust. It knocks the savage human into my core. The catastrophic picture of it all.
The quality of a human body, invites me to dine. Figures, ancient, grotesque, a human subject flails off the edge and onto the canvas of a young Caravaggio - who serves a human for lunch, with Olive, Merlot.
The quality of a human body plays the violin for show. Part personnel, part image himself. I dine first, with him. And second, with him.
I eat and I dissect one human from another and I wonder, who really, should be framed? The virgin or the violinist? The restaurant or the referee? Myself as customer of humane morbidity?
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