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Chorizo, Chorizo as dark as my blood
eaten by kings abraise in the mud.


I wanted to write ‘sweet in my blood
or ‘thing of my blood
but as I was idly thinking of chorizo
and rhyming couplets
I cut myself deeply while slicing
up my cooked Spanish sausage
for this abandoned recipe
and it was a deep slice
one of those where in the instant
of accident the pain shouts
but then subsides as you watch
a good part of the blade pull out
of its penetration.

It was my very clean knife.
Very sharp.
I get a new one
every Christmas.

Some men get socks
or blow-jobs I suppose
but for me it’s kitchen knives.
I have a hankering for them.

I do not covet women, but their knife blocks
I imagine carting off home under the cover of night
and an old woolen brown blanket
too itchy for sleep but perfect for purloining.

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