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From His Face Sprouted the Beak

from We've Come For Your Flesh by Burial Grid

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Three-thousand eight-hundred sixty-nine weeks down.
Only one more to go
Save your bedside breath for the battleaxe and for the plough
They tell me my ears will be the last thing to go
But they slid from my head into space so many years ago
On week one-thousand six-hundred and four
I carried you past a crabshell-laced ocean floor
Their chitin shattered windshields
Battered my feet like chemotherapy
The next time you see me it will be my first week
The next time you hear me I’ll be a grosbeak
My threnody to blot out the dawn jay when she sings
Please don’t wretch as my bones hollow out into wings


from We've Come For Your Flesh, released January 22, 2021


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