this little piggy went to market,
thighs all swollen, teeming with blood
chubby fingers inch closer, circling in on the
chopping block, bumbling through the filth,
clumsy tongue, choking--
gushing, an open wound oozing, spilling her
scent, all raw and ripped open,
cold places cooked up.
your silence is a notch in his belt,
you know.
while he went shoving all of that bigness in
a too-small place,
this little piggy stayed home.
perfect crimes go
unpunished,
you know.
"As soon as kitsch is recognized for the lie it is, it moves into the context of non-kitsch, thus losing its authoritarian power and becoming as touching as any other human weakness. For none among us is superman enough to escape kitsch completely. No matter how we scorn it, kitsch is an integral part of the human condition." -Milan Kundera
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