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Red Meat, Erich von Hungen

CW: descriptions of meat


The crow tears

long sticky strands of red meat

from the street,

as if the flesh,

beneath the concrete skin, itself,

were being eaten.

It moves from side to side

as if thinking the crossroad

will lift an arm

and swatting hard, knock him away

from where the road is bleeding.

Black sheen, there,

like a well hole,

too deep for any light to follow.

That hole moves back and forth

hopping, retreating,

wallowing for an instant,

for an instant, flying,

then gliding back.

Always a spot,

a place too deep for light of any sort

to show through,

while it tears off

great distorted hunks of meat to swallow.

As we do too,

picking and pulling

upon each other,

what they said or did,

their looks,

their ways,

their dispositions,

the dreams that they attempt,

the hopes they won't give up.

We yank and pull and pick

and grow fiercely fat

as any unapologetic raptors

upon free, stinking meat.



Erich von Hungen currently lives in San Francisco, California, under a giant Norfolk pine in a century old house between Golden Gate Park and the Pacific Ocean.

His writing has appeared in The Colorado Quarterly, Cathexis Northwest Press, The Esthetic Apostle, The Write Launch, The Ravens Perch, From Whispers To Roars, The Closed Eye Open and others.

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