fast food

sometimes I wish to feed,
to feast upon ancient lean,
to chase the rabid instinctive,
the bolting reactive;
no thought to the herded or corralled,
as this is my sex,
and I tear at the flesh;
the flesh not fattened,
not readied for a cost efficient harvest,
and now I know why they call it game.

I have been in such a place,
molded and moved from one staging to the next,
and though not slaughtered and plated,
the milking has been thorough,
draining;
a near perfect dehydration,
and a withered , crumbling carcass blown away
by any passing gust,
and even then,
I have not evidently given enough;
more is required.

so now I thirst for blood pumped vibrant,
pulsing anew through every portal,
reaching out to the furthest trickle of every tributary;
searching, probing, pushing past boundary,
tentacles alive with curious abandonment,
tasking arteries yet to harden,
yet to jam with jaded sediment,
not worthy to be dredged clean.

is this lust for such meat primal?
a consciousness raised or lowered
to evoke such predatory cunning?
is this how empires are built,
how power is acquired,
devouring the quickest,
the brightest, the most elusive?
I crave such a hunt,
to track, to pursue,
but alas there is no longer much bounce
left to the pounce,
and so armies are required,
posses to bring the prey to bear,
and I cannot afford their salaries.