bitten into. Who carves and who is carved really doesn't matter. Who bites and who is bitten depends on the occasion.
Please observe the sound of a broken flip-flop from your bedroom window. It is summer and a city peasant is waving for a lighter. His skin is doughed so crudely it's hard to find his eyes. His yes is the sound of slavic clock: tak tak tak.
At the train station a final whistle cuts the air as each memory chugs away on forgotten tracks. Romantic rubbish is stuffed into recycle bins. I am carried away and pushed open by the lidless. I must mind my memories, mine the dark ripples. The meat of the body eats itself.
There’s a he and a she waving for a blue lighter through the bedroom window. It is summer and a distant train carries dough-faced passengers in the early morn. A slavic clock above a recycling bucket blinks on and off.
Please observe the slender wood as a final whistle cuts through the air. Lidless eyes are stuffed into dark ripples of skin. Ripples mix with old coal on the wet road. A train eats itself on the dark tracks.