“Until Their Voices Burn Fluid”
Crickets: all the intimidation of silence, but bodies
hidden in the grass, praying. For what? Day? For
good, nothing! Morning! Morning, Binghamton Writers Collective!
Wake the fuck up! Lawnmowers! A leaf blower! Fire! Music
in radio floating into your wheezing dorm room.
I kill crickets. My alarm clock chirps and I eat it. Time devourer.
Writing superpower. Speaking superpower. The power to act,
perform, fake, confuse, change people’s minds, spill the candle
into the meadow. Revise, revise, revise! Cremate the cadaver,
set the cold dead body on fire.
- Binghamton Writers Collective, 9/2/2012
[Note: This piece was written to be pig slop for BWC. BWC members, feel free to edit this piece at your discretion. Make it better, worse, different. This is collaborative. And feel free to post your own pig slop.]