Hammer of the Dogs

The statue of the ghost stands livid and ferocious. Flames lick around its ankles. The letter I wrote to her sticks like papier mache to the large buttocks.
Rotting sand bags are stacked around the pedestal.
The wooden bench is sodden. It’s rained steadily, brutally, for several months now. My underwear is stuck to my backside.
The sun barely punctures the dense cloud. It’s like sitting under a blanket.
I aim my cigarette butt at her ass and flick. A respectable pile of dog-ends collects at her feet, close to the fire.
I notice a pool of watery blood running down one side of the plinth.
I gather the collar of my jacket around my neck and look up at the birds of prey circling above.
The dancers will arrive soon. The music to accompany my own slaughter.
So I return to the belly, all the while wishing to be devoured.

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