Cold Bean Porridge and a Virgin Milkmaid

And i shuddered and trembled as we fairly floated past this building from which they had flown off into space: rocketed, sacrificed, yoked and bedazzled, raggedy, transfixed, auctioned, looted and howling scarecrows into the breathing jungles of this soft and easy, stormy-out-of-eden country, funky-jawed and joy ripping, grease trapped, babbling wind...and in the extreme right corner two mammoth bloodhounds lapped, tongued and gnawed down the bony skeletons and the nostril-gutting spoils of this building's bowels bursting like water bags, cast away from its moorings to land-lostness and humpback prayers spinning amid hovels and clapboard whispers of dreams and citadels, psalms, bales of cotton--laughing to mouth down the bad yoke, which weaved its way through the hose built upon the pale riggings of a vessel afire in a docking bay, which had become a castle for rats, making potlicker of the blood, flesh, feces, skeletons, eyes, ears and throat and tongue of the looted, discarded shipwrecked spoils in the bowels of the swinish hole...ah but the little children pied-pipered in their pitch, from where they knew not whereof and plunged down singing as if they were back in the low red-clay country and stealing up now and winging off, and then vaulting over the pale ghost of a harpooned yet thunderously devouring sun in flight--as if even in their looted youth they were possessed by wings...

(Leon Forrest, There Is a Tree More Ancient Than Eden, pp. 44-45)