And the dog comes in and looks at me,
and I ask: “what the fuck do you want?”
And on a starving day it would answer (if it could):
“I want to rend the flesh from your bones.”
Sticks and stones… Sticks and stones…
Late nights spent on cold cave floors,
looking at the hieroglyphics awash in the moon,
looking at the glowing worms and their cocoons,
wanting on certain days to be
a ways to be away from here, to be he
who on another cliffside stands.
So R-1-double-“O”, when on lonely nights
when no blue glow will satisfy the lonely lights
in your eyes, think of the lonely skies.
Think of the glowworms in the day,
wallowing away, twitching and crawling,
putrid cocoons only coming alight in the full-bellied night.
Think of the sight, billions of your kind,
so many that they squelch under your feet messily.
So many that the glow becomes a travesty,
that the wallowing is the only living.
And become a new thing.