Friday 26 November 2010

#42: The Lament Of The Velociraptor

Gnashing through vertebrae
into hot gut ropes, thudding sacs,
gristle clots and juice,

the velociraptor apprehended something
far off, like a blurred leg
in a photograph, a vague notion

that it would never lie purring
on a hearth rug, never know
the warm shackles of domesticity,

never feel a familiar palm
smooth its cranial ridge, cooing:
'Shh... good boy.'

Blood sluiced through its talons.
It went on eating.

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