surrogates

when the surrogates
enjoy the feasts of your eyes,
they cry for more.
for a vintage dram of your blood
topped off with la coeur flambee.
they toss these down,
second-thought-less,
while discussing the next get together.
they fuse the heartstrings to the
Cerebellum.
they peel your life from your
demoralized bones
and complain it is overcooked.
"dog meat, i say."
these particles of sound sit in
stunned silence staring-
surrender to the stars
doused in gravity
doused in love
doused in a fresh gravy-
slathered on thick for
their pleasure