Gluttony

There's a greedy ague
to the city;
guttural in its raw
trembling fat shakes
it leaves me two minded
with split minds
like salvaging a wreck
from the car crash
of last week.
Reoccurring thoughts of
"why want for more?"
when more
is a loose stitch
that you pull
to widen a hole that stretches
at the side of your leg.
More is the hole
that we fall through,
as we shovel
the emptiness from without
trying to fill up the in.
Stimulating thought
isn't as easy
as just taking more
Stimulating thought isn't as easy
as just taking more,
More is a pleasure house
where the pleasure never ends
and you're forced to
widen your horizons,
as you widen your maw,
roving eyes that search
left and right
from back
to forth
and I tell you
no man has ever been sated
who did not taste the bitter
Such it is then, that so
some will savour the bitter
to taste it forever
so that their dis-pleasure
may be all the
more.
More is the wreck
of the loose ride that
came off the bend
whittled away by the wind
piece by piece
as flesh is torn
from the face
that is burnt until crisp
like a cinder
to dust
unto diamonds.
What shall we want then
of more?
More
as from bones
our flesh is torn
as we grip the sides of the ride
as it plummets
into the very blackest core.