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 Parasite







      I suckle from your witch's mark,
          grow strong upon your bleeding teat.
          I'll swallow more the more I grow -
          I'll soon become my own defeat.

    The flowing spice - your crimson milk
    might halt without a moment's note.
    Warm mouthfuls cross my blackened tongue
     in hope to sate my ebon throat.

            My appetite might not relent -
            the more I take, the more you give -
            a future's not in my descent.
            You kill yourself that I might live.

     Please flush me out before you die -
     though you still stand, all's not all right -
     or, nourish me 'till nipples dry.
     With love, your humble parasite.
 

Jeffrey Meikle
COPYRIGHT
9 Feb. 1999
                              ...
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