Dead Lands: Feet & Hands

Smelly Hands

He washes face in river Thymes; he shines with calcite and clover drenched memories like the City Herself, buoyant on stinky water.

A heady musk from hands and feet, City injects every pore. Spy the Curzon Cubs shouting, “I will not give fleshy heart for bread! I will not prop you on my lungs, guts, and dark-circled eyeballs!”

K. Shawn Edgar | Madrid

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