Their bodies are a war zone – death and life
fight over them. Their bodies writhe and twitch.
Live cells kill rot – they moan because they itch.
It’s like they burn. If you could take a knife

and slice into their flesh, it seethes and boils
like ants in civil war. Their burning bile
corrodes their guts and lights and liver while
digesting what they eat. Their guts in coils

knotting like rutting vipers. Mildewed eyes
are wet but not with tears. They may seem slow –
they are fermenting fiercely as they go,
They snatch our flesh – each bleeding handful buys

a moment. Soon their flesh falls off the bone –
each one will lie, and deliquesce, alone.


About rozkaveney

Middleaged, trans, novelist, poet, activist
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