The Cost Of Hollow:

They were appropriate little dollops, propped up upon a stolid crust—congesting and then fading away--one slide of slick motion, an undressed best. Out there, the rain greases up and bakes the cockle burs, for beneath them, swarth-quakes, and where they stand: a palm full of men, a spoon full of women; such duress and raised touches, touches cool-smooth and sinking, even to the depths of each other’s pores: where the oil and blood stirs and lingers in chemical stews that send up leaping aromas with in their brain.

Darts of dark akimbo soldiers: stealth-meat-men, who shake the airs with whipping tongues, frothing the fog into ghost beards. Thick bits of wet, drop, and pool against their tight temples.

The sheep are shoran, and pink pale; the heard hobbles in gut-reels. The men are gone and women trampled. A shine of flesh—a wound not settled—glistening under its dusting of liver and lunge; and further beneath, glimmering oozes of winced dark eyes, and fat bleeding tongues.

FellowMan

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Ode to my ancestors; and oppression