his eyes were
white, I said. the girl laughed.
all eyes are
white, she said. these were different. a hot,
wriggling sort of white, like maggots
on meat. his mouth, then. that
was a foetus like a fleshy scar
in a metal bin. soft to the touch, it gave way
a little
but paused at the bone. his cheeks were slabs
of raw thigh on the butcher’s table,
his tongue an electric eel with the skin
sliced off and the flesh diced down into tiny cubes
of effortless, effortless pink.
they god, she said. you need to
get out more.
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