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14 Being a day on which the eating of flesh was forbidden, the monosyllabic, misdelivered tug of the deprived body dancing on the clumsy bone, earth gleaming with blood of the unlawful, the recurrence of first infliction, or so the animal riven between my legs in jets issued from the throat, gash semblance of a human relish in the agony of others, as there were harrowed corpses everywhere once here in uproar and repetition over time receding now into the ecstatic lather and stench as you quiver tight to the foul edge and fine gore birdsong: insomnia and the bulge of rubbish spewing from the mound of bags left on a corner, does it matter where or how meticulously sifted by the frail scratch of a man there, anonymous atrocity, this mere surface of miserable speech at whose expense, what spasmodic drool, whose squat life along the margins of a public coherence bound only by malice and raw with the hate of so much human stink—as in the glower of the keeper in surveillance never reconciled between the executioner and victim ...

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