Wednesday, April 15, 2009


The animal urge is strong,
see how it stretches
its jaw with longing,

girds its loins with oil
and rouses hunger's glistening
pulse and throb. Even the weeds
are sprightly, green with vigour.

Among the vibrant grass is a cat.
Long soft smokey fur
and khol-rimmed, golden eyes.

She crouches over her prey,
lets the wing fan open,
allows a small fluster,
then catches the ruffed throat
to her again.

She scents the bones already -
toasted honey.

There are dead birds
in the next room.
No heads, just wings
and tails, sometimes
laid in rows,
but also scattered.

The wings are cloud white,
hunched, as though lifting glory.
Here and there a surprise
of small mauve curls, like grapes,
have spilled from underneath.

A man is shouting -
shouting -
waving his broken penis
in my face.

I don't know how to fix it.
All I can think of
is to leave as fast as I can -
and the rows
of beautiful corpses.


Blogger Chris Never said...

I still love this


I have never, and expect to never see it anywhere else but here, where your mind meets the page

If, and I posit this purely from an observational point of view, a man was waving, as you say, a broken penis in my face, I too, would run the other way lol.

You do realise, how painful this image is to us men I assume?

4:35 PM  
Blogger burning moon said...

I don't think I know anything about men at all.
But it's a painful image, yes.

5:20 AM  

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