Emma Cousin

Put it out there

In the centre

Of the dance floor

Then ram it full

Of cocktail sticks

Like it can’t feel.

It’s a fucking

Live hand grenade

Anyway, out

There throbbing

On its own,

Rhythm, beating

Blood and love

On its sleeve

Like a soldier.

Juicy as steak

To a sharp fork

It’s a fist full

Of pump, pulsing

Red, sweet and hot

Like it’s angry,

Thudding like a

Meat-head trying

To win your heart

With a thump. It’s

Fighting age and

Failure and holds

On to your soul

Like a padlock.

Eat your heart out

Hannibal. It’s

Murder on

The dance floor.

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