Peter Fruchter

I see you've noticed me.

So you've not thought me night mare.

So you want a ride on the horsie, eh?
You'd like to feel the leagues molten meomory,
find in the lightning of my hooves
concept cobbled avenues
and ford the startides?

You want a ride on the horsie
and you send me virgins?

Fuck you.

Not on my back
you innocence worshipping
inexperience gathering
waste of evolutionary time.

Your claim to fame?
One bite of knowledge fruit.
And it was not on your initiative.
And it stuck in your craw.
Ere first blood of realization,
pathetic trickling from you lips

you ran

you cowered

you killed.

You ran from the tree
in herds.
You ran in shame.
You did not note the other,
the myriad other fruit.

It is your research project
running in herds of shame.

Only night mare will goad your dreams,
suspicion's ashen light alone a guide
a glimpse of answers
to the questions you shall never ask.

Not on my back, monkey
unless you bring to me
from that very tree
self-knowledge fruit;
and devour before my very eyes
while comprehension dawns in yours
a blaze;

Yes, the flesh of that fruit is your own.
What of it?

Will the creature
given entire creation to taste
taste not itself?

No taste for creation?

No ride on the horsie for you.

And stop with the virgins already.

Peter Fruchter

Carolyn's Diary
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