Gore

Red spills on the ground— another drawn, not your own. Your dawn rises alone

By Glambird Vincent B. Glambird

May 24^th, 2025

The Hide

Hidden away since before dawn, I waited for the weekly truck to lurch up the dirt road to the muladares— that offering ground for winged scavengers given short thrift by modernity's bleach.

I’d come to the serra months before, dreaming of Bearded Vultures (Gypaetus barbatus) drifting through mountain air like ginger spirits. But left with empty hands and heavier hopes. Even the ever-present Griffons (Gyps fulvus) had kept their distance—or worse, perched behind the hide, out of reach.

But all in good time.

I sensed the truck before it showed itself—no sound, no dust trail, only a shift in the waiting world.

A hush, then a rustle in the underbrush as a great committee of Griffons slipped into position like revenants summoned by the scent of stew.

High above the pass, a Cinereous Vulture (Aegypius monachus) began to spiral—slow, mindful, monastic. A bird's true self is often better revealed in their French or German names, I thought.

At my feet almost, an Egyptian Vulture (Neophron percnopterus) ambled past, chicken-like in its steps. You can be a happy bird of small pickings.

Then a horse’s head bobbed above the greenery, eyes dull, nostrils flared in a frozen grimace. Had its tame wobble unseated the rider? I thought of a scene in a Kusturica movie. Or was it Günther Grass's Blechtrommel?

Seconds later, limbs and torsos began to jut and sway—unassorted sheep, goat, cow, and pig parts, heaped atop a tipper truck, jostling with each bump in the road

The severed horse’s head nodded in mock assent.

If the horse's body was there, I never saw it. In the pandemonium that followed, all I could see was a flurry of brownish wings and reddened heads atop probing necks.

Pandemonium

The Committee

In Memory of Francis Bacon

I must have been sixteen. I had crossed the Channel—my first solo escape.

Lured to the Tate by a poster, Bacon’s retrospective that year, raw and magnetic.

I stood in silence, drawn to how he worked the paint—the photographic references, flesh blurred, undone, faces mid-scream.

How could there be beauty in so much violence?

Years later, at the feeding station I thought of Bacon—the raw cuts and movement, the saturation and distortion.

The fusion of abstraction and figuration.

A life's end, a scaffold collapsing into its scattered joints.

Every feast, an inheritance of ending

The scream, eternal, hangs in slaughterhouse silence

Distorted figures dance with death in crimson halls

Brushstroke, accident—raw nerves painted into form

Spontaneous smear—skin holds no borders

Innocent no more

Flesh remembers what it was—a pulse, then silence.

Homecoming

Lass dir Alles geschehn: Schönheit und Schrecken. Man muss nur gehn: Kein Gefühl ist das fernste. Lass dich von mir nicht trennen. Nah ist das Land, das sie das Leben nennen.