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a shred of... (3 of 3)

where old eyes were
stares back with crinkled decree and inked sockets
mouth opening to howl but there is
just the writing filling his brims
the coiled sheet within
crawls and stretches slowly
shifting out and beyond all orifi

hands jerk up to his splitting face
shredding his elbows and up to ribs
across burst belly rending twisting maelstrom
papyrus and chicken scratch
rustling against itself, escaping
the heap lurches forward,
legs stumbling to balance this great wad
that rips knees open, then slits shins
the rushing tendril pours and
piles to his once feet

the remaining upright mass
hits the ground, shivers slightly
then coils tight and taut
no skin visible anymore
this crumpled mess is he

the witnesses begin to stir uneasily
murmurs and bawling start to spread
as the crumpled texts roil in
the discarded putrid filth
consuming in loud slurps and
sops in the glot and gloop
pushing out the solid chips and fragments
it suddenly contracts and constricts
tensing tighter, grinding to its center
pulling itself into itself
until the now tiny ball of
writ and filth goes silently still

in a desperate moment to ponder panic
these observers begin to look at each other-
but none dare run
they have to be here
it is almost done now

a loud rustling brings them back
the thing in the valley begins to unfold
detracting and stiffening
straightening into one giant perfect sheet
creaseless with gloss ink shining its
blistered words from edge to sharp edge
reaching and spanning the small valley

he has done it
it is ready

they do not even give
one more shred of honored silence
and fall upon him like... like...
like despicable human beings
the pettiest and greediest creatures
on the face of all and any
tearing him to scraps
grabbing all that their fingers reach
in a riotous mayhem, clawing and flaying
each other to pieces to have a snip
to keep for their gluttonous selves

and now it is over

fifteen years it took me
finding forgeries and shams too many
but i finally found this tiny strip, it’s real
she said she was from that very village
her accent seemed on
but so many tricksters…
until she showed me
in a dark box
read what very little it held
and bought it for
more than i should’ve
but it IS him

i know because
i can hear still him scream
whenever i read it

Review Request (Intensity): 
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Review Request (Direction): 
What did you think of my title?
How was my language use?
What did you think of the rhythm or pattern or pacing?
How does this theme appeal to you?
How was the beginning/ending of the poem?
Is the internal logic consistent?
Editing stage: 


this is a major work of poetry. Reluctant, because it is about poetry, you've said yourself elsewhere, we run the danger of writing only for each other (or was it Wesley said that? Or maybe me?)

For some reason I'm reminded of Tolkien's "Tree and Leaf" combined with Bukowski.

Whatever, I'm totally impressed and haven't been so drawn and compelled by such a long poem since Chuck's "Cowplot" series (hopefully that grand poet may rejoin us when the site re-opens).

There are a few possible typos and questionable word choices but fuck all really and it's too long for me to spot them for you.

What I did was copy and paste the whole thing into Openoffice so I could read it all at once. It really needs to be read as one piece.

Here it comes [weirdelf pulls out his bee stamp and ink pad, rolls up The Fools trousers and stamps each knee]
You are the bee's knees.

A new workshop on the most important element of poetry-
'Rhythm and Meter in Poetry'

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