Raw, that’s what they were—all raw, energy unkempt and sagging. Breathing heavily to remind themselves they were alive. Their rabid rabbit eyes bored holes through clothes; they had listened to their mothers and eaten all their carrots. They had developed a taste for them—the crunch had no other substitute. And everywhere you turned, there they were, with their sunken features and sharpened teeth. Twinkling eyes sparkled and shattered the picture frames that caged them. They smelled of origan and martyrdom, but plumb the depths of their cisterns: beware the nematodes. Woven partners of the snake, Medusa’s braids. And bathed in sour cream.
Issues forth acetic rain
Nile turns back to blood