I sleep on the floor downwind from my dog nephew’s dented can cat food. I pop its top but he only circles and sniffs. The smell is sickening. Wafts like smoke. Magma made from shit and skin. An odor only bested by its texture. Death swept from the floor and spun into slurry.
He lets this lie ’til the lights go out. Then he gobbles it down, licks my skin as I slip to sleep. Long laps from a meat-greased tongue. Warmth and grit. Wet mouth and whiskers.
The smell slips to pores. Seals in. Turns sweat to spoiled gravy. I put arm to nose and breathe it deep. Taste the stink of slime, rooster clits and boiled chicken dicks.
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