Summer 1981 • Vol. III No. 3 Three Young Hungarian Poets |

Onion Speaking

I'm simply skin all through, even when you slice crosswise, dice me cubewise. Make mincemeat of me! It's still the nothing you're cutting which I don't contain, for there's not a thing within. Being simply all skin. Skin's skin, even skin of skin's skin even . . . I'll stop when skin-skint. Thick-skinned bragging's not for me. Besides, it can't mean anything to you. I can hear eggs being cracked . . . Sacrilegious electric light pierces egg's night. So, your cock's tread splashing hand doesn't tremble beating away with a fork at the Seed? —Enough out of you, mouth! The fat's already sizzling. Executioner, do what you have to: into the fat with me, Symbol Gobbler-Upper!—just have me go glassy according to taste.   Egg, old pal, don't be afraid of passing away in such an age, when man to Nature's voice no more inclines, when mute already are Brook and Grove, and into quintessentially unclean Four-Footed Beast's melted fat are cast ultimate things —our kind. Better for us (ra

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I'm simply skin all through, even when you slice crosswise, dice me cubewise. Make mincemeat of me! It's still the nothing you're cutting which I don't contain, for there's not […]

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