I’ve never liked a loud eater.

It’s a sound that should be muffled by heavy breathing. Soft wet flesh
touching and pulling apart is not a sound excused by pasta.

A person’s modesty ought to be mustered by a noise like that, and if it isn’t
they must not think correctly about bodies.
They must be lousy in bed.

I won’t forgive being made to think of the terrible mouthy sex of a loud eater over dinner. 


They’re all laying around like idiots.
Next to the pond, or I guess really the stagnant filthy pool next to the barely-fence which keeps the animals from the meadow.
From where I’m standing I can see one pretty clearly, but the three or (I think) four others sort of look like different greyish-pinks, just swaths of jiggling color embedded in the dirty dumb mud and the wet hay and clay-riddled, sandy mess that I guess you might call a pen if it didn’t look so much like an accident. There’s some dark rocks too, or so I think, but those may be only piles of shit, it’s hard to tell and I only vaguely care. And there’s a few pieces of wood – rotting branches or old broken lumber or an ex-fence, it could be any or all of these. Oh, and a tree! In the middle of this fucking bucolic horror is a fine, small, almost wavy tree, very young, saving it all. But beyond the fence, beyond the fence is a green green dark green meadow, coming up slowly to a hill which I obviously can’t see over ­– who knows? – there could even be a glen over there, or a dale, or a copse, or some other thing that most people only see in paintings.