For the Soul of Your Mother

From the pitch blue that strikes
ache in the eye for trying
to find a bottom,
we carried into
Reeth under iridescence.
Always a longer drive than remembered,
a very serious walk, and a wonder
at the soundness of the whole idea
upon arrival; ice cream parlour
locked up and all.
An evil of colour
this sundown,
bedraggled with cloud-rips.
Lost I’d say, or left behind –
garter snake ecdysis,
or vixen smeared
over an oily road;
that thrift shop cardie
you’d never wear,
but for the soul of your mother,
can’t take your eye off.



These chronologically challenged fortune
cookies started life on my side
table. Covered my books, todo lists, tickets,
picks; bulged a drift against my lamp,

so in the evening nuclear
waste prophesies burned
citreous through the wraps,
milky as you’d like.

Telling my past and present.
Delicate pins of red sulk
in plasma like blown glass. The
origami doomsayers

spilled fast down
onto my carpet. At times
I’m delirious enough
to think them pretty

as white roses, or spare
stars, forgetting that reactor
core balled in
threatening meltdown.

I’ve had thoughts of you, S.Lee.
How these chemicals have been
on my skin, my clothes, inside me.
Where are my super powers motherfucker?

I have dipped an ashy toe
in plutonium fen. Drunk
it and expelled it.
Drawn some in a pale.

Yet I am raw as an old strop.
I have made razors sharp
as star limbs while I have
blurred into bokeh.

If I were not thinking this
I’d swear I’d become object
set here to drip as
salt lamps, stalactites. Inmates

are warming,
have talked to me,
told me jokes. I have
laughed like dragged

girders over the
blemished epoxy
of humour. Sort of gun point
laughs, elevator manners.

Atlas hatbox knows
very little of geography but a great
deal of the seasons,
and of storm formations.

Doesn’t know how talking
about the weather became a
faux pas. Believes it to be
the closest thing to real

magic after art, the relative strength of ants,
and a great cloche. Erhu is a dirty
old bastard. Wants me to pick it
poppies. I tell it it’s not the season.

Asks if I have any weed.
Orange MK II has noticed
my voice tuned down
an entire minor third.

B I believe.
Asks if I’m into drone.
Sometimes I say. This guy’s
alright says African

redwood hippopotamus.
And I wonder at his Brooklyn
accent, and absentee tail. I tell
him thanks. The ugly bowl

of pennies/misc. threatens blades
sometimes, but I’m not worried.
He’s mostly just pennies. Graduation
llama asks if I still write.

I am I say.
Now? As we speak
Champ. God’s honest.
But I must stop for a moment.

The pendulum clock
just peeled me
a ripper, gun cocked, and I have
drafted more neon globules

while I dragged my girders,
and I am entirely
out of tissues


Dry laughter of night trains
beneath scoliotic spines of galaxies,
and moonlight rib bone stark around the boiler,
nips the ghosts of idle machines. The chains
holding cold engines have no weakness.
In neat cryogenic sleep dreaming of breath
their tidiness evokes emptiness;
emptiness imitates death.

Smokestacks that whispered into clouds
now slim cathedrals in dedication
to nocturnes of silk organs
periscopic in the system. Small crowds
of spiders boil from the lips.
in webs, wing dunes rise
resembling pumpkin pips;
the last rot of mulched flies.

Piston jellied stuck.
Ants march the shaft in a double-helix.
Moths choke the whistle cavity;
animate shadows of the nook.
In dust-light of oblivion
oily spectrums flash
from pulsing obsidian
of beetle backs.

Slime filigree fractures
suedes of decay,
drawing out continents
in the dust shale; pictures
etched by godly mollusk.
A new planet born
in backscatter musk.
A second first dawn.

Amputated carriages,
twitching still and world scattered,
hollow the core. A murderous
un-pegging of cargo marriages.
But empty bodies must be filled.
Each split chrysalis
and ghostless thing billed
a thriving new metropolis.

Top Heavy

You fell so often
your skull developed craters
and was moonish,
fizzing lunar transients.

Grit asteroids revised
your cranial map.

Maria flowered darkly.

Mountains surged from plate faults,
and basaltic valleys whirled beside
your blood orogeny.

The sun dripped away
behind your swell of horns
and lit you – a theatre
of bones –
and I sat beside you,
eating moonlight sweet from knives,
then dissolved into orbit.

Still, They Knew Him from the Flock

Inside the beacon, someone
found the blue eyed lamb hung;
throat frilled as gunnysack,
in the first field of the coming sun.

Atlas and Axis disengaged;
both strung and trapper.
Music of death-rattle.
Selena’s tracks between used
rubbers, and chocolate wrappers.

How many nights before death,
caught in mooring rope,
the stars washed in so low
a tall man might knock his head;
the moon stooped enough to hang his coat.

Costume Party

In Notre Dame, there’s a bookshop
where they stick stickers
over every price and barcode,
marking each book up five, ten, twenty euros,
because it’s famous.
If you buy a book,
the lovely french till lady, who looks grotesquely literate asks,
“Would you like a stamp”?
And every customer gets a look of worry
and quietly asks,
“Does it cost extra?”
It doesn’t, and so every person says
“Yes, I’d like a stamp please”.

It’s always full of beautiful people
wearing their very best writer’s outfit-
Shawls and scarves all cleverly draped,
like the wind in Paris had delicate fingers.

Up the stairs to the left
there’s a little old piano
in a small enclave
and you’re allowed to play,
if you’re able,
but not allowed to take any photographs
in case you disturb someone’s studies.

Opposite the piano is a wall of post-it notes
with bits of prose, and lines of poetry, and songs, and messages;
all written by the patrons, all in different languages.
Each one assiduously chosen by their writer as the
champion of their portfolios. The line that communicates a pure essence,
and if some wandering publisher reads it,
will storm the world in search of them
to publish every sick and sweet word.
But they just sit there in a sort of dogged rest,
looking somewhat cemeterial,
twitching each time somebody opens the door,
and perfectly ignored
by everyone that walks by.

I picked up a book, read a page, put it back, and played a note
for the dead poems
as I left.

Butterfly Soup

Summer came late that year, so Spring was long and colder than usual, rather winter still right there amongst spring in a blend, and all new life stuttered for a while. The small green buds of stem and branch stayed small and green, and the grey cygnets of the brook kept their black bills and downy coats long into the season. Farmers said they should have planted rocks for the seeds frozen solid in the fields. They spoke of it in the pub and the church, in the blacksmiths waiting on horseshoes and fire tools. They talked it over, and over, and over. “Better off pressing light bulbs into the dirt and hope to grow a glow than wasting good seeds in these frosts. Aye, better off stuffing tulip bulbs into light fixtures, pray flowers will brighten the place up a bit”.
It became so, that day was just a lighter shade of night, the pale hard land unbroke by first flowers, and the pale sullen people were meek and composed themselves meekly. They held their heads drooped like a Snowdrop’s so if seen from behind they looked decapitated and from the front disconsolate, and they began to hate the sky but didn’t dare curse it, so instead cursed their fowl or tea gone cold, a bootlace come undone.

Each night ice crept through our windows and come morning we’d see it there, like the mark of something that snuck in and then out without waking us, without taking a thing; something patient and vicious, something terribly quiet and without eyelids. The house was old, had no central heating or a window much thicker than a sheet of paper, so when we took our baths we’d stay in till we looked picked from a briny jar, because the cold felt like it could kill you, and when we ran out of firewood my Mother spent the rent powering the electric heater from 86. Each morning the ice would be there and by breakfast it dripped, and seeped, and bloated the sills; so when summer at last arrived the wood contracted in the heat and over time began to smile sort of.

It started with a cold rain composed of close big drops,  and as the rain warmed, the earth warmed, day by day until the full splendour of summer bored down. It fell hard into the roads and fields, washed through doorways over mats that said welcome before muddied shoes, and made our dark hair blonde at the ends. It filled the air and the birds sang through the mornings just as they do in the cold months, but people would finally listen, for they had stopped before, shiver-struck and taciturn. Cloth dried so fast twenty loads of washing could be done before evening twilight, even in between the other chores; and every single old wooden peg buckled from the work load. Hard little apples appeared in the tree beyond the drive, swelling and flushing until the branches arched a bit from the weight. With little true wind the weathervanes rested oddly atop the church and smithy, drifting idly towards their own slanted weight. One looked out to the north east, and one south west and both of them together as such seemed disoriented, like chickens lost their coop.

The last clouds dissipated quickly and left  the raw blue bleeding down, the whole thing so bare you could see unmoored seeds of the cottonwood tree drift a quarter mile, If your eyes and patience were good; and a sparrow clear ’till the earth curved. It was strange to see, undressed of murk and haze, of moon and star, and of prayers; people pray less when the weather is right, and smile more, and though it is not, the world seems right and good. Things changed inwardly and outwardly. Even the church appeared made of paler brick, and leered across the road with its hot gravestones; bloodless Jesus on the cross hung clear to see through a window. At first the Lilac tree was all black bark and nothing else. Stood smallish, it reached out into the garden like a deathshand, until flecks of pale green threaded through its thin branches and It flowered in firm green bunches. They softened, and warmed. and a purple blush took hold. Opened fully, they were somewhat like portly ladies in floral dresses jolly amongst the butterflies; swarms, clouds, storms of butterflies. If you shook a branch they would fracture and flutter and then regroup around the blossom. And if some great, rare gust stirred them all at once the shadow cast shrouded half the garden.

Sun scorched the land and dried the dankest portions of the back garden, and the night brought no rains. The wood store roof was more dry than the logs. Tufts of grass erupting from the gutters edge had baked a honeymoon yellow, and beneath the rabbit hutch was parched ground, salted with dry powder mud. The ants and the woodpigs all gone away somewhere with the clouds and the sheep’s wool. Skinny spot lights cut through the dark where slate had shuffled on the shed roof, illuminating forgotten and broken things. It put shocks of shadows on everything, spinning all down the day, growing long; and people pulled them round the village on their errands like the family hound. They put away hoods for wide brimmed hats, and where the children’s faces were pinched with them, bald men wore freckles on their skulls. They went blood red to bed each night, and woke as sore as the colour ought to feel, and as they shaved they didn’t face the mirror anymore but looked out, worrying through their windows at the bayoneting rays; and cut their cheek often.

Some days my sister took me out turning rocks and picking wild flowers, folding through the tall couch grasses. Looking for field mice and grass snakes. The cotton candy grass just turning purple stuck to our socks in streaks, and we’d go home cut up by bullthistles, with yellow-green hands, and grass beard in our hair, to put the flowers in a vase on the kitchen table: Daisies and Dandelions, Forgetmenots and Dog Roses, Poppies and Elderflower. From then on the kitchen was my favourite room in the house. Even after they wilted and petals of all colours littered the tabletop.

It all went off like a hand grenade and set things to moving outward from our little garden. Worms drilled deeper in search of moisture and stopped turning the topsoil, so that the earth clenched beneath the grass. They moved down, down and drank with the deep roots of the Lilac tree. Snails climbed the side of the house for the guttering, but the walls were hot and dry, and quickly their opal streams grayed and dwindled to a hair line, and they cooked dead to the wall, not a metre up. They clung there for a few days before the empty shells fell for the cat to paw about the earthy drive way. Each day sun drowned the country, darkness seemed an old, peculiar thing; could no longer picture it right and felt it must now be gone, even from the other side of the earth. But thin dusk would settle and we’d sit for supper outside, not needing coats or blankets, considering the cool dry night.

People talked about great profits and good harvest, with olive skin and deep smile lines. They spoke of new cars with pull down roofs, picnics, and family come to visit. Some were full of stories of seaside trips, the best ice cream in the world, and the sea warm as a bath. Older folks arthritic joints relaxed in the heat so they walked long walks through the lanes and down the stream. They stopped speaking about the old days so much and talked about right now. Children hummed and buzzed among each other, like bees at the brambles, and the vicar gave no sermons on the wrath of God or the fury of Hell. The Lord giveth, The Lord giveth. And if a person is only as good as his word, then each was kind and true, for if someone had vowed to help another in their garden or to patch roofs they kept their promise and relished the opportunity to be outside.

When word spread of the storm whatever bound us in such delight guttered out. It came in from the East and people spoke of it like war, or end of days. Some said it was fortunate that it was coming in slow. Time, they said, to prepare, to get the washing done, and set buckets under holes. Others said that a slow storm is a storm that lingers on us all. It moved like a wounded animal, gnawed off its own legs, dragging itself slow and bleeding hot blood; the torn black clouds swelling until the whole sky was a black suffusion. Hot rain fell in sheets while we ran bare foot through the warm streams on the roads and roared with the animal in the sky. It rained so hard and for so long it was as though the villagers had done nothing to prepare and floods rushed, merging at the bases of hills. Trees folded over like corn from the scythe. Cars drowned out. Dead pets rose from shallow graves and wheeled in the drift of the water. Bones and half rot and just buried things all in a mix. And us right there in the middle of it all.

The grew clouds left behind were stuffed in so tight one more might’ve capsized the heavens. They captured the heat and the air grew humid, each day hotter than the last. Ripe red apples that fell from the tree yellowed, and melted out on the ground. The Lilac blossom turned brown and started to die. Brambles between the fields decayed. Everywhere ants writhed across disfigured fruit, and the air grew thick with flies. One rabbit sat down in our hutch and died next to its sister though their bottle was full, and the heat pulled a stench from the corpse, twisting with the spoiled sweetness of the apples and turning honeysuckle; until each individual foulness was lost in the conjuration of a deathly new one. This is the way it was. All goodness in departure, and ten million flies to fill the gap.

All going, dissipating somehow like the clouds did; dissolving sort of, or lifting up and off. The flowers, the fruit, the smells, the spirit, spilling through our fingers. It was although all the peace, and beauty, and comfort were winged and migrating, and we could not, or didn’t know how. I saw it all in my mind, in throngs pitching across the sky, garroting and piercing clouds. And one day the phone rang, and we were told that my Grandpa left also, to join the shimmering cast of the great migration, and I wondered if we had been left behind because we were no part made of beauty, or goodness. We the hibernators. We the abandoned. We the fiends.

The rapture went on, and on. The Lord taketh, The Lord taketh. And left all the rot and stink, everything lost, ruined. All gone but for the butterflies. Their numbers were slaked, but spheres of wing and colour still bustled at the purple blossom left in the branches. The last migrants, the shallows of the dragged lake, dregs and ashes. If only you could keep it somehow. Keep it present and fresh, alive in the midst of death. If only there was a way, some vessel that could do it, and you could have it on the mantle, or you could keep it in the cupboard with the herbs and jams and take it out when you really needed it, in storms, or after nightmares. If only you could keep it.

I didn’t mean to kill when I walked out into the garden that day, over to the Lilac tree with scissors in my hand and a jar. Even as I cut blossom from the tree and put it in, I didn’t mean any harm. As I caught the butterflies inside too, all that would fit. I didn’t mean it. I opened holes enough for summer to breath, see, but not so big it could get out, and flies in, and it didn’t matter about everything going cause we had this right here. Just the right size to cradle in our arms. To look at the day when the leaves outside were stomped underfoot and the frosts came again, and the ice on the windows. Summer in a mason jar. I just thought, If only you could keep it, like a pet, or a picture in a locket, or somehow, anyhow.

We woke to find butterflies, dead, enough for a soup for two. Stacked like Dog-Rose petals on the kitchen table, and of the Mechanopsis, and Forgetmenot; petals of all colours. Somehow even separate, as beautiful as the whole. But they crinkled and thin clear lines cleaved the colour. They curled and writhed, peppered with wasted yellow pollen, and they began to smell like old breath and melting butter. They stiffened and brindled, scuffed as a tomcat’s ear, and after that, all that was left were ashes. I took them up into my hands but they crumbled between my fingers on to the floor, and with the sweat of my palm formed an ink that scurried the creases of my hand. That was it then. The thing would be back soon. The thing without eyelids, but a great many teeth, the Death-God. And one morning checking the window for his slick, I looked out at the land and the plants, the animals and the fields. I looked at the Lilac tree. I saw its blossom crying down. I looked to the church across the road, bloodless Jesus on the cross hung clear to see through the window. I looked to the graves, their disrepair, and I saw the sky thick with prayers.

The Glow

Death, I picture is much like

walking toward

a single street-


from a path,

black deep.

And noise

isn’t noise

but notes.

And the light isn’t light

but the absence of

the dark.

And shivers hit you all over.

Not from cold,

but strange joy.

And once more you remember

the burden it was

to cast a shadow.


And it’s something like

the impossibly quick


between dreaming

and waking,

that is so fast that

it’s hard to imagine,

but must exist all the while.


Then if you die with priests at your bed

the venue will swarm

and pick your bones clean of a soul,

pray and regurgitate.

So angels like baby birds will devour you once more.


And if you die by your love

your soul will travel in them.

For that is the heaven you know


And if you die by your enemy’s hand,

at least

you’re not alone.


And if you die alone,


I am


and so should we all



We were never one,

though people like to say it,

but desolate,



Unless we

found each other

in the dark.


I’m sorry

I never




Pre-orders up for my first poetry collection – The Man In The Moon Blows Out Suns Like They Were Dandelion Clocks

Grab a copy of my first ever poetry collection from I came here looking for a fight press.

first book cover

‘We here at I Came Here Looking For A Fight have a rule: If it’s awesome, try to publish it. Using this simple guideline we put two and two together – Zach Jackson is awesome, so we published a collection of his poetry. Pretty simple.

Zach’s work is reminiscent of Charles Bukowski if he fronted a hardcore band and focused on incredible imagery. The Man In The Moon Blows Out Suns Like They Were Dandelion Clocks is an awe-inspiring collection from one of the most promising poets of the current generation. We may have come here looking for a fight but Zach is the number one contender.’

If you want one, grab one here…..


Thanks x

The Hunt

YOU know how you skin a rabbit?
Do you?
Well I’ll tell you shall I.
You take it by the hind legs like this, and you cut circles, just above the joints,” He’s miming the action with his knife, “and the front legs. Then you cut a line down each leg to the arse or cock, or if it’s a girl rabbit…then you slip your fingers in, underneath the circle, and work the hide up and off the legs.”
Invisible men No. 1 and 2 are laughing.
“Now when you reach the tail, see now the tail poses a problem. You have to get rid of it. So you take your knife,” He’s waving the blade in your face, “and slowly, you saw through the tail bone. Slowly because you mustn’t hit the bladder, or you’re covered in piss.”
Your mouth tastes like sick, tastes like beer, tastes like piss.
“When that’s out the way, with both hands, you tear away the hide from the body, like banana peel, and it slips off easy like. Then, now this is the hard part, you have to work your fingers down into the sleeves of the front legs, and pull them out. It’s really difficult this bit. You have to use proper force”.
Snarling closer, and closer into your face.
“Then you work the hide down to the base of the spine, and I should mention that, at this point, the blind fucker stopped its squealing, stopped wriggling”.
A ball of his spit lands on your bottom lip.
“Then, and this is personally my favourite part. You hack, the skull, loose, from the spine”, He’s scraping the point of the blade gently down your neck, “and all the fur comes off in one with it. Then all that’s left is you break the legs and arms at the joint with your hands, and carve the hide that’s left off the feet. Socks off.


Breakfast, the man at the head of the table with pinkish juice in his teeth is the only one with steak. Plump dewy tears of bacon fat cling to his moustache. His bottom lip’s like a rock splitting a waterfall, and grease streams down either side of his chins, milky yellow. Meeting beads of sweat it thins to silvery rivulets. They drip and soak through his shirt. Imagine the hairy bog forming beneath. Shudder. Father said you had to be mannerly in front of these men. He said they use seven different types of fork. He told you a rumour he’d heard about the man.

“A while back”, he said, “his house keeper passed on, so he hired a new man”. When setting the table one afternoon he placed the desert fork where in fact the salad fork should be, and the salad fork in place of the desert fork. The planetary man who didn’t eat salad, ever, thought the house keeper had acted with intent, mocking his health. So he stabbed him with the salad fork.

With a voice like Behemoth’s stride, he speaks in booms.
“Carve more bird”, the glasses rattle, “more bird”.

A man dressed like a magpie, stood at attention in the doorway comes to the table. He seems stiff and brittle, made of slate, eyes and all. He grasps the huge two pronged fork, that’s already stuck in the bird, strangely. Closing three fingers round the wooden hilt, his forefinger stays locked and curved rigidly away from rest. Half a centimeter up from its knuckle, are four scars, all in a row, equal in length. Reaching for the serving fork you see his palm, just for a second, but you’re sure you see four more pearly lines slightly thinner than the other side just above the Venus arch of his thumb. You touch the knuckle above your forefinger, looking back to the man from the story eat across from you, polished forks glinting all about, and feel a glancing dread in your testicles. The same you feel when you climb trees too high and look down. Your father told you, he told you these men are civilised, in an old fashioned sort of way. You see egg yolk on his left lamb chop sideburn. You see egg white in the right.


Icy mud works its way into your eye. Your teacher told you that ‘Here’s mud in your eye’ was a popular phrase among soldiers in world war I, wading through boggy trenches, and with farmers toasting a good harvest, and before them it was used by race horse owners, and during fox hunts. You got a cotton wood seed stuck in your eye once. The doctor said you had a corneal abrasion. It’s where after you get something out your eye it still feels like it’s there, due to the light wound the debris causes. You either think you’ve gotten rid of it, and haven’t, in which case you can go blind, or you scratch and rub and wince forever thinking it’s still there, in which case you can go blind. You think of flea ridden dogs, scratching themselves furless, and on in to death. Your entire front is mud covered. The murderous gale dries the top layer but it has sunk through your coat, through your jumper, through your tee-shirt and vest. Smeared on your skin it comes to freezing rest. A stone under a burst of marsh marigolds caught your boot. When you put your arms out they were devoured whole by the bog, and your face slapped the surface. You thought of the hairy mire between the planetary man’s breasts. There’s mud in your mouth, -Bogs have a rich dead plant deposit, as well as animal waste, and a lot of the time, animal remains- some of it dries before there’s time to spit.

When you’re a beater in a hunt, you work as part of a unit that spreads out in a thin line, spanning a massive portion of land. You sweep an area strategically, shouting, waving cracking flags, and banging sticks against trees and rocks. The idea is you scare any hiding birds into flight toward the shooters. A lot of the time you’ll scare rabbits out as well, in which case, dogs will catch them. This is the last drive before break the leader tells you. The shooters drive from point to point waiting in position, normally on lower ground. When the birds come, they kill them. The leaders of the beating teams drive two to three trucks of beaters from drive to drive, establishing the points and approach. As the line stretches out and the beaters either side you are dots, you’re alone. It’s a doomy place. To be a shooter, you must have an all-terrain vehicle, an approved weapon and license to own it, a dog, and around £20,000. There will normally be around ten shooters. This is what the land owners charge. Your father won his place today in a clay shooting contest four months ago, which is why you were invited to the shooter’s breakfast. Slowly the dots at your sides turn back into lines, into figures, into people. Break time means half the drives are over.

The break point is a small concrete box with no door, and a flat metal roof. Inside is a wooden table, with rusty metal chairs, all different, and creaking foldable wooden chairs, all different. The crackle of hot tobacco burns beneath the voices of Farmer’s sons. You want to get up and go. More than anything you want to leave. There’s no lock, no handle, or hinges, no door, but if you wander out, you’re on your own and you will die. Welcome to nowhere. It’s a doomy place. Everyone gets a beer. It’s undrinkable, bitter. It’s all there is. Everyone else drinking is sighing like they’re sliding into an armchair with evening slippers propped up in front an open fire. The three smokers, all in camouflage, neck to ankle, are older by far, invisible men. Looking over, one says “Did you see?” He’s finding it hard to talk because he’s having hard time breathing, because he’s laughing so hard. “Did you see him fall? The little cunt”.

Invisible man No. 1 has new black boots with steel in the toes. You know they have steel because he’s been inviting the others to stamp on them. Invisible man No. 1 says
“I shot a rabbit,” You take a gulp, “in the garden with my rifle two days back, and it didn’t die so I went out and swung it against a rock. Stops its suffering and that”.
He laughs. You hear the blend of a thud and a snap of the rabbit’s skull against the stone. You choke.
“It left a big red smudge on the rock”, He giggles.
Beer surges through your bronchial tubes, falls out your nose, and fizzes like acid on your coat.
“There was a little bit of eye as well.”
The invisible men laugh. You see the half sized flat side of its head with a three quarter eye. Beer stings beneath the surface. Your eyes stream. Invisible man no. 2 has brown boots and his jacket is far too large for him, and says the same thing happened to him. He’d shot a rabbit in the leg, however where No.1 had taken the rabbit to the rock, he’d brought the rock to the rabbit. It was squirming around so much that when he dropped the boulder he crushed the entire animal, bar a triangle of fluffy ear poking out. You know the exact angle of the rock on impact because Invisible man No. 2 adds that, from underneath the other side of the boulder its guts reached out half a meter all in a straight line from the middle of its belly. No. 2 says it was pregnant. He knows this because half a hairless fetus was tangled in the slimy, squashed organs that came out.
They all laugh louder and louder. It’s amplified by the concrete box.
“You’ve got to put them out their misery though”.
The smoke that was thin coils, is now completely shapeless, almost opaque. It dries your mouth. Invisible man No. 3 has a flat cap, and a knife tucked in his trousers. You take a sip.
“I found a blind one in my field one day. Rabbit like that, it’s got no chance, just gonna suffer ain’t it. I got up real close. It never even heard me.”
At the start of harvest seeds are planted and the fields ploughed, so the mud is turned and quiet, and crumbles gently under foot. Around the old farm house where you live, father owns a little bit of land, and grows arable crops like barley, and sugar beets, and wheat and potatoes.
“I grabbed it, like this, He grabs an invisible rabbit, “and shoved a stick up its arse”.
Hot vomit shoots in to your closed mouth.
“It was squealing and jerking around like a mad thing”.
They’re laughing so loud it hurts your ears.
“Then I held it by its back legs in one hand,” You swallow, “and took out my knife,” You need a deep breath. He removes his knife from his trousers. You inhale smoke, “then I skinned it alive”.
You vomit again. This time it leaks out on to the floor. The invisible men saw it and are laughing at you now. No. 3 approaches.
“You know how to skin a rabbit?
Do you?”


It’s the last drive. The moors are brown green striped and endless, stuck with bracken and heather. The brown lands are fire scars. Landowners set fire to the heather which makes better living conditions for grouse. This means more grouse, means more hunts, means more money. It’s a doomy place. The grasses are so long and woven that one step takes the energy of ten, and bogs snake beneath, stagnant, waiting to be moved. The brutal sky would better suit an ocean; faces whipped raw by sharp rain. The bark of shooter’s dogs and crack of last shots muffle in the wind. In the distance Invisible man No. 3 falls down, flat cap flying. You stop to tie your shoes but you can’t feel your filthy hands and give up. Invisible man No. 3 is still down. You walk on. You look back.
No. 3 is still down. Jump a bog, look back.
No. 3 still down. Turn, walk back up the hill. Still down. Closer. Still and down. Talking distance. No. 3 IS HIT. No. 3 DOWN.
Shotgun ammunition used for hunting smaller game like pheasants and grouse is a blunt, heavy slug, 18 mm long, and weighs 28 grams. This is to ensure a killing blow. Your father told you this. But due to this design and low muzzle velocity, around X feet a second, the slug slows down dramatically over a greater distance. Your father didn’t tell you this. You know this because the invisible man is still alive. And his eyes are on you. The slug hit the cartilage of his nose, which had burst into red nothing. Invisible man No. 3’s hands are trembling. From that impact the bullet ricocheted downward and opened the roof of the mouth, his chest flitting up, down, up, down quick as sparrow’s wings. The slug’s on the floor just there, with a few teeth. And his eyes are on you. You step forward and hear the blend of the thud of your foot and the snap of twigs. His eyes are full moons, and the wind tears at your ears like screaming lions. You can see inside his face and just make out, through all the devastation, the back of his tongue twitching like a snake digesting too large a creature. And his eyes are on you.
The Ammunition of a hunting shotgun is a blunt, heavy slug
This is so the bullet doesn’t go too deep, or through the other side.
This is because the bullet mustn’t destroy the prey as an object.
This is because the final pleasure of the hunt is not the kill.
This is because the final pleasure of the hunt is the taste of the dead.
This is.
You pick up a couple rabbit droppings. Wait for a lull in the wind, standing over No.3. Lodged between your thumb and forefinger, slowly, you grind the droppings together, crumbling them, and watch the flecks and dust dance down into No. 3’s new hole. Its eyes are on you. The dust falls in them too, and darkens in the moisture, peppering the white. No.3 doesn’t blink. Its eyes are on you, but you keep looking on into the stringy abys. Looking around, the line’s moved on. No one is coming. It’s swallowed a lot of blood by now. Eventually it will vomit and choke. It’s suffering. You’re surprised it didn’t choke on the slug.
It’s on the floor right there.
Passed the slug are some teeth,
The wind tears at your ears like screaming lions.
passed those teeth are more rabbit droppings,

The brutal sky would better suit an ocean.

beyond those
This is a doomy place.

is a rock.