Meredith Quartermain After the Gods the weeds smell for money smell in the yellow mammoth bellies sold, like steer flanks, for less than a piece of plastic his pocket attracting skins puffed with breath the narrator feels he ought to yank bulls but runs out of bullets alcohol and rape, Karla shows them her back yard swallowing the gun the lips returning a frumpish box safe among rows of potholes parked in their slots like war on a clock city red blue yellow rows gathering floorboards, a long desperate gasp of distance a layer of clerk breaks middle engine breaks of coffee bus ears broken down and hooked chainlink in gondolas carrying cars quotidian ubiquity ducts for ventilation fall over in that grey mirage moving slowly where beige shelves used to be naked neck to the business scullery our mould our lifeloads spindly gasp for light arguing neon for painted mushrooms job hunt with rifle resume machine click bags neon and her new though some go years with thought warbles wild steer through the city's canals dog dint and fridge basement kill to be seen sinking and filling refuse when we scrape work smooth brand reclusive cement the words themselves garbage skips tiller tips toward next evict patches with pegboards utter unscrews didja give didja sign for the rubber step out of the heater laugh over the pants and shirts sticky beige on the floor elephant cashier island in sea of donkeys gobbling before her the narrator feels he ought to begat fruit with a face but greeks named the stars after the gods Next |
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