I had the thought to
slide my face up against
the hot, rough skin of the tree that grows in our front yard,
jagged brown bark,
and maybe tear a hunk of it off.
A lump of steaming flesh with that
glistening yellowey fat
shorn right off.
I would stare stare stare.
Actually I think it would more resemble
some whiting flesh.
All feathery and soft and cold and silvery
and quivering.
I’m not pink inside.
I’m not a seeping red.
I can imagine
how I’d feel with
such a large chunk of me
missing.
Agitation of hands. Strength of words. 
Two things popped in my mind: 1) Superstar the movie with Molly Shannon, and 2) bears. Don’t know why really. You would probably not be feeling so good if there were a large chunk of your flesh missing, let’s hope that doesn’t happen.
wow, I was thinking about writing a poem which involved a giant grater and a voluntary face. The notion of a bloodless chunk did not occur to me. I like the twist. How would that look? Like a cadaver drained of blood?
As I was saying,
I saw it as a huge chunk of fish flesh.
All white and quivering.
It’d feel sort of like when you squeeze the flesh over your knuckle and then touch it. All sort of warm and soft.
Like mashed potato felt through clingfilm.