issue 3

october 2015

issue 3 - october 2015

Fleece - R.V. ten Hove

Share this chunk of me.

Yes shear this lamb,
That underneath 
The white-snow fleece
You meat the mud-dark beast.

He feasts on malcontentment
Maggots that bevel 
deep in winter cloaks.

He dregs the wine for clots of blood
Hid in the magenta fluid.

Yes shear this lamb, revealing 
Coarse hide baldened in pink patches

Where crusted heads of wounds peel
Places the rider’s leather saddle chafed.

The crook’d driver whipped from cratered lips 
The honeyed ooze and drip

Mingle with spittle
Creaturely mass you collapse 
With the twang of a shaft

Muffled bleet, bleet,
The thrash of groundless, cloven feet

That knife will not do
Perhaps one sword 
to sever the neck

Next an axe 
Two pummels to the head
Render those wormy nerves dead.

Pull those stringy seams free
Serve them veins on a platter for all to see
Lying in limpid delicacy.

Taste them 
Spit them up if you must 
Or thrust them through your guts

Devoured or half chewed

Served to my audience
This chunk of me
Slathered in snow-white fleece.

Contributor's Note

[Not provided - Ed.]


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