Fallow, the Fields

N. Ian McCarthy

Mad Bongo Maze

In the lay night hours
that buffer the 
                                  first glare
from all the 
                              stuttering

Plexiglas, 
                         I entreat the
thin scab of sleep, in 
sympathy, to crochet a 
scarf for 
                       the soul of a
bruised liver—here, puffed
out like a 

                        bean. In my brisk
slurping of the confections, 
cake frosted entremets to
the venom of a 
                                   stillborn, 
ubiquitous
                           debate, I have
eaten too much. I ate too
much. Last
                           night. But I also,
for luck, spread a wrinkled
skin of cellophane over 
your 
                dead
                            grandmother's

flat Willow dish for 
                                           leftovers.
When the auld dome glows
like a hot wire
                                  and I have raked

my mouth with 
                                  soap and
scissor blades, could you 
set out the 
                          sporks
                                          and 

two ounces each of bile in 

the good chilled apéritif 
                                   glasses?

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Author: Sudden Denouement

A Global Literary Collective

One thought on “Fallow, the Fields”

  1. This was fantastic. Like a deranged cartoon on a old box TV, that you just keeping watching. Or in this case I just keep reading. That’s what came to mind.
    I think this piece is fantastic.

    Like

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