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  • Writer's pictureTuur Verheyde


Grendel’s footfall is heard,

Hunched behind the sunset

In summery October. See it

Now: Rosy cheeks, a babe’s

Gleaming head, a boneless

Body buried in greasy fur,

Folded flower-like, an ursine

Arachnid or tar-dripping

Starfish, maw like a blood

Blossom chewing clotted

Slime, teeth like thistles

Spiralling down the gullet

In a bottomless gorge-gate,

Leading to its black bowels,

Which arch and echo like

Infernal cathedrals coated

In flesh-feasting acid, eager

To consume you and grind

Your dreams into mulch.

This is the foe that haunts

The day, that slides its hairy

Slug-claw into each orifice to

Yank your stomach down as

You receive the ever breaking

News. This is the foe that relies

On the cold worship of cruelty

And callousness, that casually

Inspects our leaders’ offerings

Of indifference and venality,

Licking its gashed lips as it

Selects only the most heinous

Of derelictions. This is the fiend

That hollows out the heart and

Kicks Culture in the dirt to lap

At Commerce’s frostbitten feet.

This is the hand that fashions voids,

Which blood-drenched wealth

Wishes it could fill, in vain.

This is what we build when

We crush ourselves between

The blind cogs of unflinching

Inhumanity. This is what will

Outlast us, recalling our

Demise, its gore-gurgling

Grin our final requiem.

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