There is no rougher beast than us,
our billions of arms and mouths and nails,
our flaps of flesh, our bulbous middles and
the lank and languid shuffling of our limbs –
what hunger is greater than ours?
what greed? what fury?
what else that walks have we not yet consumed,
and will we not consume it yet?
are we not a god of many parts,
a hunger made flesh and set loose,
are we not, all of us,
hungrily eying the horizons of Bethlehem,
slouching onwards,
and snapping our jaws?
What Rough Beast
