The Walrus - - CONTENTS - By Richard Sanger

Hand­some knob, ar­madillo, hand grenade of army green, ar­mour-plated petals, man enough to top a col­umn or stop a ban­is­ter dead in its tracks, you were never meant to open up and flower, let alone ex­plode and re­joice, never scat­ter, amidst hosan­nas, your seed— no, not in this bar­ren world at least.

Here, your lot is to keep it in, to re­main tight-lipped and celi­bate, nod­ding your bald pate wisely at the mere ru­mour of plea­sures you shall never taste—

the plea­sures we have to drag out of you, by teach­ing you to be ten­der, to share with us your in­ner­most feel­ings.

First, we ap­ply boil­ing wa­ter, then the full treat­ment: one by one, I rip each petal from your heart like a con­fes­sion

I’ll savour and dis­card, like a tongue whose root I’ve torn and streaked, as I tug and drag it out over my teeth.

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