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Thursday, 27 September 2012

J. Divina Erickson


the floor boards are vocal chords. he steps forward, they repeat themselves, a protruding nail rips his t-shirt, slices skin. blood trickles down & reflects where he has been. he lays back and opens up his chest, replaces his ribs with goose bones, feeds his meat to the dogs. mushrooms decompose the bones leaving no trace. he must get away before winter. the night is spent glueing pigeon feathers to his thighs. counting seconds through an hourglass he jumps out the window before the last grain echoes in the emptied room. he goes south, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. if you had a strong enough sense of scent you could find him on a beach somewhere replacing his ribs with whale bones and fattening up on whiskey and rare meat. if you ask him what he's doing he'll be straightforward: i'm going somewhere to be alone, where there are no people, where there's no pain.

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