We are not all made of primordial soup.
Some of us are made of anti matter,
but not the quantity of smoke.
Some of us throw off muons and gluons
and little non particles until we dissappear.
Some of us burn with blue heat.
Microwaves exciting the atoms of water
in everyone around us until they explode.
Some of us are made of heavy metals,
and break every bone we clasp with grim
pleasure.
We are not all made of primordial soup.
Some of us are made of trifling
flies, grazing beside resting ears.
Some of us conspire with the devil
to snatch a body to call our own.
Some of us dissolve into spittle.
Acid blood eating us away into slicks
that cling to the soles of everyone's feet.
Some of us are made of fleas,
and sip from holes torn with ardourous
hunger.
We are not all made of primordial soup.
Some of us are made of calculations
that keen like sharpening knives.
Some of us moan in the heat of daylight,
like victorian hulks waiting for the eve.
Some of us rattle like cold teeth.
Knashing down and down into luxuriant
grief that fills the naked bellies around us.
Some of us are made of bubbles,
and swallow the soapy gristle with mouse trap
laughter.
