Rattenkönig
By
Jo March
“And the taste in the air is faint but there
Just enough that the rats are nearing
Cause where there's blood there's feast and famine
Makes murder a meal”
- Body For The Pile, clipping.
We scuttle.
There is a feast for us, in this dark, in this damp and dirty. We climb over each other and over the meat both fresh and decaying, both corpse and carcass, both murder and meal. We bite and claw and eat, indiscriminate. Our teeth may sink into the gray fur of ourselves as often as the soft, soft skin of the pile of bodies we scuttle through. Our appetites are inclusive.
We scurry.
We are gray fur and sharp teeth and sharp claws and thick tails and twitching whiskers and black eyes and we are many here in this dark place. We do not remember where we started. Who was first in this dark place. We do not need to heed any history. We have abundance in the present. We have always had abundance in this dark place. We do not know where the meat comes from. We get it bloody and fresh and regularly enough that the decomposition is no concern. We grow fat and we are content. This world is good to us. We need not devour our own tail in this dark place.
We slither.
Bodies piled wide and high and bones create scaffolding for a cavern in the deep, in the darker darkness in this dark place. In those depths, where the close air is sweet and warm, we live as a king. We churn, sluggish. We are unconcerned with our tails tangled with each other. All is connected, as we are. We take within ourselves the life of those who fall from us. Those who begin to chew at the knot must be consumed, must be taken within ourselves. We are not wasteful of our own. The meat comes to us, and we live as a king and as a court and we must be blessed to be in this dark place.
We scratch.
There is a feast for us. We gnaw and glut and gorge ourselves on what may have been people once. May have been ourselves once. But now is only meat to devour. Only bone to fashion this crown for the king we have made of ourselves.
Jo March is a wannabe poet and writer from South Africa. When not struggling to find the right words, they've spent their time this past year making their own writing zine in collaboration with friends.
By
Jo March
“And the taste in the air is faint but there
Just enough that the rats are nearing
Cause where there's blood there's feast and famine
Makes murder a meal”
- Body For The Pile, clipping.
We scuttle.
There is a feast for us, in this dark, in this damp and dirty. We climb over each other and over the meat both fresh and decaying, both corpse and carcass, both murder and meal. We bite and claw and eat, indiscriminate. Our teeth may sink into the gray fur of ourselves as often as the soft, soft skin of the pile of bodies we scuttle through. Our appetites are inclusive.
We scurry.
We are gray fur and sharp teeth and sharp claws and thick tails and twitching whiskers and black eyes and we are many here in this dark place. We do not remember where we started. Who was first in this dark place. We do not need to heed any history. We have abundance in the present. We have always had abundance in this dark place. We do not know where the meat comes from. We get it bloody and fresh and regularly enough that the decomposition is no concern. We grow fat and we are content. This world is good to us. We need not devour our own tail in this dark place.
We slither.
Bodies piled wide and high and bones create scaffolding for a cavern in the deep, in the darker darkness in this dark place. In those depths, where the close air is sweet and warm, we live as a king. We churn, sluggish. We are unconcerned with our tails tangled with each other. All is connected, as we are. We take within ourselves the life of those who fall from us. Those who begin to chew at the knot must be consumed, must be taken within ourselves. We are not wasteful of our own. The meat comes to us, and we live as a king and as a court and we must be blessed to be in this dark place.
We scratch.
There is a feast for us. We gnaw and glut and gorge ourselves on what may have been people once. May have been ourselves once. But now is only meat to devour. Only bone to fashion this crown for the king we have made of ourselves.
Jo March is a wannabe poet and writer from South Africa. When not struggling to find the right words, they've spent their time this past year making their own writing zine in collaboration with friends.
