Severed Pig’s Head
Jack Nicholls

After it all. The snuffling off veggies and scum. Some of it the scum off us. And mum ripped away. All of her just a gone froth now in my mouth. A white taste just. And grey and gigantic in a hot shed. Pressing hard up to my family. Teeth knotted in our heads. Taking just the mud into myself sometimes on the black days. This need to swill something. The oil of body always touching another body. Pushing into others sometimes or getting pushed into. Saying here I am. Here you are. All grey tit all black slick unders. A gritting of your body mad but. After it all. Just a different closeness. Swilling a different mud. And never seeing another set of eyeballs. And asleepy then the machine and waking up with our heads off lop lop lop. My body off somewhere and this could have been any day. After my head in a jostling box cold and bloody with our other heads and then a tiny box for just mine and after being held by something warm and moist in a little shed noisy with not my family. Held tight by one while another took off his skins and all the others noised. And under his skins a flesh like ours but pinker. Coming near. His unders soft and raw. Him pushing in. For not much time but. And the noising. And finally I see eyeballs. So after it all, is it surprising that they are blank and grey as the old shedwater? That I can’t see a thing in them? They let me go and I hit the floor facing down and it could have been any day.

Jack Nicholls was born in Cornwall and lives in Manchester. His work has recently been published in Spork, Pank, Chicago Quarterly Review, Belleville Park Pages, The Cadaverine and other places. He also runs a lit cabaret called Flim Nite and performs in a sketch group called Beach Hunks. He works as a teaching assistant in a primary school.

Well Versed is edited by Jody Porter – wveditor@gmail.com
Connect with Well Versed on Facebook.