Eye
287 Eye F uck them. I am curled around the eye, the red eye. Fuck them. Fuck them. My blood is beating out the words. My blood is crimson, it branches through my body like the bones in a bat’s wing. It is beautiful. It is the color of pansies. Fuck. Them. Fuck. Them. I am inside. Inside the eye which is blood shot bang bang bang bang bang bang bang Aaah. Their hands are in the air, their eyes are closed, blood is spurting from their bellies. They look like they’re dreaming, falling backwards, the blood pouring out between their legs. They’re dead, they’re dead, they’re dead. They are hanging upside down on a tree in Ile-Ibenu. They are hanging in the sun without water. The air stinks of them in Ile-Ibenu, the Country of Hatred, where I am the king. I wear a necklace of teeth, my throne is made of skulls polished smooth as ivory, they glow white in the gloom inside the palace. The pits are full of blood. A little boy comes running to my throne. He is looking for his parents. “Don’t cry,” I say, “I kill those who shed tears in my palace. Do not cry. They are outside. They are waiting 288 for you.” He turns and runs outside. The trees take him in their arms, the bloodstained trees. Do not cry. Do not cry. C y c l e 4 ...
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