And The Carcass Shall Rot

by Alexander Ziperovich

My lover woke up and told me she had dreamt of an eagle methodically eating her family and then itself, shooting in and out of the sky like a needle sewing the skin of the world.

The days grow like distended shadows, my clothing doesn’t fit right, honesty has left me  a partially healed wound, badly weeping.

The absurdity is becoming more and more disturbing every day and every day I wish for a light that does not blind me and a darkness that does not blind me and a life that does not itch me and a death that does not come.

The humor of these gallows; they are laughing like mad men, like mewling donkeys, like forest fires consuming your children.

I am not awake.

I am not asleep.

This is not heaven or purgatory or hell.

The tide is rising and there is the eroded face of a cliff in either direction forever above me.

There is loose soil in my claws, there are crushed flowers beneath my feet, dead moths stuffed in my mouth.

There is fire and heat, there is prison on demand television, there is food and shit and shelter.

This place is made from women you can never placate and men you can never become, a tiredness that will not rest, love unrequited, life unlived and the humiliation of the effort of trying to resolve any of it all.

 

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