Hyena Spit The Poem
by Peter Erich
Pulp and flesh falling into dry grass is a gaze you cannot shake is sun following the ax handle the grit in the grain that burns like acid on the blade is salivating over your disgrace is rotting peaches and the warrior you want to be is useless sound. Worn leather boots, you are your past, dismantled and placed in buckets is venom and holy water and open hydrants, these are your last rights, the bruise that bled.
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Author's Note
Glassjaw – Motel Of The White Locust
Dan Deacon – True Thrush
Earl Sweatshirt – Chum
MellowHype – P2
Metz – Rats
Death Grips – Hustle Bones
Nervous Cop – Nonrum Nonproblem
Dan Deacon – Lots
Other stories by Peter Erich
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That's some strong stuff.
An Editor's Eye selection.
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Such density, such lyricism!
Like this a lot -- great connects and disconnects here. I like how it moves to places we do not see coming. Fun to see such experimental flow.
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