plasmapop
the rusting mud and how our feet / sunk into clay into moulds. water, siphoned from the touch-repulsed boot, the stink of it, the smell. the sogging tent flap, and the wind—bitter. the squelch, the soft, the silence.
drag on fabric cover the marble this isn't a gallery and we've no time for statues. cover it all up. no stone drapery, no linen, or cotton carved here, and we are not ideals for some ancient to sculpt. slip feet into your battle shoes and go.