VANDALS AND HUNS
ARE COMING TO DINNER
'And then we snapped his fucking head off with a
crack.' The hordes, the hordes were taking back
whatever they could - cranium mountains and
those rivers and streams. Horses, red-eyed horses,
sweaty and pumped, pacing to prance at their own
fiery breath. Eyes bulging! But more than that, the
piercing force of those on foot. Lines and lines across
the land where blood alone dwells. No company
like this before. Land and space, together, and words
without words. We are growing tired, too, of all
their Christian ways - gutter-prancing pagan-induced
half beliefs. What is the difference anyway? No time
for this as we cross these doty but savage civic squares.
Bells and encampments are everywhere. You seek
compensation? There is none, you vassal cunning serf.
'And we snapped his fucking head off at the neck.'
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