The Doneness Test

I won't put it off: Duh! --stick a fork in it, and judge tenderness, how close
the meat is to falling off the bone (except that also reminds me of rags, more fondly of the rag man who used to ride through the neighborhood positioned so high in his truck (it seemed in the enlargement of looking back) that from the second floor, I could put money in his hands, he could just jelly roll me into a scarf no different from a wooly tongue other than degrees of realness on some scale on some plane of detectable or imperceptible existence somewhere in some moment pretty much impossible to pin down.

Oh yeah; the doneness test —sticking a fork in it, say: a crude variety, four or five rather slim (convenience) wooden stakes sort of knuckled up so as to jab them (quite an operator), all at once, through all the chambers of a vampire's (your choice) heart.

I'm picturing (whether I want to or not) the wood sliding between ribs, a lattice of vampire ribs and a fork of stakes, allowing for the distortion of vampire anatomy or of fork of stakes that may be necessary for this latticing to happen —this is already twisted, so a little more forcing of the mesh is allowed (is also encouraged, stimulated) by the precedent. (How much of the twistedness of the subject is imparted to the writing, is absorbed by the writing, is contained by writing?)

Almost simultaneously (quick shifts from one to the other, less than the speed of light) I'm picturing (a) bull with long ribboned (really?) skinny swords (skewers) sticking out of the bull so that aptness may be expressed in terms of "unfinished porcupine."

This is leading to my neighbor and her over-praised son who takes the two-fisted approach with forks, several in his hand, the handles pretty much flush along his wrist and arm, held there with Ace™ bandages, fork tines showing up between his fingers in an array easily attesting to dismantled metal veins, dismantled in some fit over the rise of artificial intelligence.

The Proud Mama speaks of this ingenuity and creativity often though it seems inevitable to me that someone is going to get hurt, maybe punctured in a pattern somewhat suggestive of a saltine cracker's top;

this Proud Mama is on the verge of claiming her son is the product of genius sperm donation (so he's a poam —product of an act of making— too) but as he is only four, the biting of her tongue is reasonable

and she's been advised to stick a fork in her tongue and carry out the doneness test before she makes that claim.

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At this point, the title of this writing also becomes: OF FEASTS & FEATS