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a shred of... (2 of 3)

his forehead bulges, releasing
a stream of glop through the
popped breaking nose, making room
clenched eyes spew blooded tears, shut tight
against the invading paragraphs and notes
his fists slaves against the relentless shoving

none of the villagers step forward
to stop or hasten this madness
it is not finished yet

some do release a whimper, though
when his screeching chokes, lips clamp
closed while cheeks shiver and bulging
neck expands, shoulders swelling
and skin stretches taut

some children hide their eyes,
but mothers and fathers force their hands
they must watch all of this

his hips jerk to hold the heavy burden
but his anus does not, letting loose the
unneeded flesh and gristly gush
there is not much sacred scroll left now

all that was in him
all that he was
emptying and expunging

arms and legs packed lumpy and dense
when the last of the sheet with the freshest ink
is poked in by barrelish fingers and thumbs
he is ready to burst
full at last

no single breath is shared among the gathered
he rolls a swollen head forward again
a swaying ball of mass and hair
with loud creaks and pops impossible
he slowly opens unseeing eyes…

(to be continued)

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Comments

Did you break this apart because you were concerned about posting something this large in one post? For what it's worth, I think you could risk putting it up together. Mostly I'm waiting for three. I do so love a story macabre.
wesley

W. H. Snow

A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley

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when it's finished

cheers,
Jess
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