I consume what I have created,
Saturn devouring his son,
and then cry at what I have wrought,
skrik.
Time and space pin me to the spot, above my head
the starry night.
And sometimes all I am is a glove for someone else’s hunger,
a soft self portrait, with grilled bacon.
About Catastrophe Jones
Wretched word-goblin with enough interests that they're not particularly awesome at any of them. Terrible self-esteem and yet prone to hilarious bouts of hubris. Full of the worst flavors of self-awareness. Owns far too many craft supplies. Will sing to you at the slightest provocation.
“And sometimes all I am is a glove for someone else’s hunger,
a soft self portrait, with grilled bacon.”
Love that sentence.
Thank you!
This was also my favorite part of this one. Along with the image of Saturn devouring his son. I think it was Goya who helped you plant that image in my mind.