Call me
The Wrap God,
for I’m calling it
a wrap.

How many times
must this foul snake
circle itself unto
its slithering
posterior..
before
we call
its truth
a gospel
fucking fact,
for cereal?

Must it remain
a square
that I can’t circle
‘til the day
I bite the dust
and die?

But then again,
the only sustenance
still left for me
to feast upon..
appears to be
my own behind.