Rauan Klassnik

{ from In a Slave Camp (1) }

 

Coming ashore there were scraps of metal. Concrete. And

millions of plastic bottles. Roaches. Grackles. And a pair of big fat bloated rats gnawing away at a ball of blood. That was it. Sunsets the color of boiled lobster. It was all quite promising.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

{ from In a Slave Camp (3) }

 

Sometimes you have to stir the bodies. Even if it’s your wife and children. Grind them down into the finest dust. Stand in a square and sing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

{ from In a Slave Camp (4) }

 

There’s a noose in every tree and if you stick your head in one the air’s filled with thorns. Pieces of a veil——wrapped round you. Tearing at you. Dragging you up. And up. Like gulls round a boat. The shore’s littered with corpses. And the sea gives back nothing.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

{ from In a Slave Camp (6) }

 

There are so many ways a man can die——crying out Why? Why? Why?——and I’m planning on using them all in big fat drops. Twelve minutes from here there’s a cove I like to sit down in waiting (like staring up through my blood) for a God to come walking up through the waves with you, dead, in its arms.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

{ from In a Slave Camp (7) }

 

In the mornings he leads me out: “There’s a good girl. There’s a good girl.” But once you’ve found a stone all night long you dote on, nuzzle and lick it. And only sometimes, clouded in icy moonlight, snails climb up on to you and suck at your milk. Graveyard sunrises have been compared to a resurrection. I prefer the dark.

 

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