The smell
Of burnt garbage and war
The compound of tires and galvanize, piles of brick
Rusted nails, tossed out batteries
A thin fabric blows in the doorway
You’re seeing then not seeing
A slight breeze rules this
Chickens peck through the rubbish heap
Eating what chicken won’t

Who knows this place?
Not so far away

In the pot is a chicken
So lean you have to suck the bones
Find marrow and mix it
With your own saliva and blood
Sustain yourself on your own will to live

How did all these tin bowls from china get here?

Wild dogs are running
They soon will be in the pot too
You are left to sort out hair cartridge
Bone and the sharp jaws of fruit bats, teethe so intricate and amazing
That in your delirium you examine them
Your tongue a fine tool to find protein
You will live