Friday was the day that the fleet came ashore.
The road is rich pickings for backpack meat. The hopeful, the desperate, the tragic and the restless. They’re dead as soon as their butts hit the seat. Poisoned quills pinch the vocal chords and then a choking fit and then paralysis.
Awake, asleep, numb but aware.
No birds sing in the cutting woods. Bloody handprints make a hideous hide across the tree bark.
The Floating Butcher is my media handle. Little rafts with parts of different people pieced into one freak carrying a devil poem in their teeth and a ram’s skull for the figurehead.
‘Hot tar blood in slice scar slit Bad meat drifter’s a dead pieced kit
Wolf jaw goat creep slays the lambs
Kill your beliefs in god made man.’
Their final breath seal’s a note to the last important person in their lives – ‘lost at sea’ and the lyrics to Come Sail Away by Styx.
I sit in my office vehicle, day after day and I hate the world that is not the river. I hate it more than my scars and my shame and the dirty things they did to me on the river bank.
The river was hell for me and it will be hell for them.
My scanner lights up with the furore. The fleet landing up and down the river and the whole force getting the call, scrambling to beat the selfie ghouls and necroweb scavengers.
Meanwhile, in the cutting woods, the bloody print trees has ripe backpack fruit hanging from the branches.
They didn’t need their feet inside my wheels so I packed them neatly in the bags.
When they find this place and the altar and the rafts and the packs and the pieces and the poem and the videos.
And the quiet.
No birds sing in the backpack trees above the red soil and saturated pain. They follow the meat on the rafts on the river.
On the shoreline.
Original written work by Richard Bell aka @rick_nightmare
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