Wednesday, 8 October 2014


He wants this feeling—this heavy slime attached to his heart to dissipate. It reduces. It chokes. It kills. Like a careless slaughter, like an ant’s life to the boot of a giant. These nights, his eyes retch but cannot vomit. He cannot - as if disabled - work his heart, and yet it works; to keep his body alive, to murder all else.

His head’s a pot—they stir his brain.

A blood-river runs in the dirt—here's a careless slaughter.