(content) Hunger

[billy]

“hunger” is a word we associate with passion.

I imagine one of those country piles, at night,
dark resting like dust on the lawns,
while in the pristine dining room,
napkin lilies set to float down china plates,
cutlery gleaming, android jewellery,
below labyrinthine chandeliers,
the assembled aristocracy, Lady Smyth
and her husband Lord George,
their son Grayson (‘just back from Cambridge!’)
and various breathing blouses, shirts, my fave line
trousers and cufflinks, raise their knives, cuff links (i think)
their forks, their spoons, and then attack each other,
marking those limbs which first compel them, this line befuddled me?
soon fucking the resultant wounds, the new orifice,
until what began as virginal calm
degenerates into bejewelled savagery,
blood mingling with sperm like paint.

i followed the poem and felt i understood what was being said, then the hunger struck and i thought wtf. it feels like a take on some surrealistic film.
i'm not sure the rush from sedate and stately to fast fuck-buddies works for me.

the country piles i presumed to be cow crap; then i presumed it was a stately home. still not sure.

upon the last two lines. i love the words, though in the poem as a whole i'm still trying to work out whats being said.

i think i'm going to have to read this a few more times. before i can make anything near a decent critique of it. (just take these words as an initial reaction hehe)
thanks for the read jack