no report or confession
I’m feeling the pressure
I’m banging it out
all a line at a time
while the burn in my back gets a little bit brighter
run all the way back to home
flecks of fecund reflection
coroneal pays to play
there’s a burning bubbling pit of acid
working in my stomach
you do you
is what I always say
this is where the answer lives
a burning bush or burning bud
it all sounds muffled
In the end they burnt it all.
Ice retreated under flickering flame; melted under hot, spilled blood.
The Jiko bones are mucousy. Their limbs easily severed.
After the bulk of the slaughter, while Shyan and Fassn cleaned up the stragglers, Cang and Abianarin built a grand grill over a fire. They staked the slimy flesh and cooked it.
Now, the blaze is but embers. The Jiko, cut down around them, plenty left over for carrion feeders, now that the gang’s hand their fill. Their clothing and armour is slick with grease.
They recline in contented, contemplative repose, and fancy this icy plane a degree or two warmer.