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Le Boucher The shop is closed. No more flesh to sell. No More Flesh to sell. No, more flesh to sell The marbled meat captures the translucent violet- veins of her throat running down down. Is he wrong to love his work? Moist with sweat His calloused fingers grip the bone like a dry leviathan beneath the tangled grass. He works the meat like Helen’s thighs on a bleu midnight His neck is hot from the persistent pumping of his large muscled arm thwack thwack thwack thwack thwack Rayburn Laroche |
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