Glass of fetus.
Suicide by train? Couldn’t find the head.
Don’t imagine the rest of it is alive??
Dead bird on my porch
Half eaten bird.
I saw this on a walk in Dublin. It was 10 a.m. and fucking cold. For a second I thought it was still alive. I hadn’t eaten the night before, or slept for more than a couple hours for that matter, because I was tattooing and partying all night. When I stumbled to the street I was oblivious to the cold. Wearing a t shirt and jeans I was filled with hunger. When I realized the cat was dead I lost my appetite. The cold set in. I realized everyone I saw in the streets had wrapped themselves well, before they left their homes. Gloves, scarves, jackets, hats, earmuffs. There was so much yarn, and fleece around how could I be so cold. Frozen. Frozen stiff. Stiff rigor mortis. The cat didn’t carry deaths scent. Didn’t move or pulse. So unnatural for a feline. The fur gleamed and swayed with a gentle flow. Enjoying the cold breeze. The breeze that carried the smell of Irish stew. Lamb. Dead lamb. Not like the cat, with purpose. To feed the weary. The undead. The tired. The hungry. Me. The Irish stew will keep me warm while the kitten sleeps.
Human teeth. They keep popping up in my backyard. Cops said they don’t dig.
