It’s been a week off. Already I miss the regimen of every day breakfast pop that little green-grey pill and wait. Wait for the day before you- low, quiet, rolling. All your blood, without waves.

I get off the bus running into the winter air, pulling it into my arms like a wounded, struggling animal. Finally, when convinced of its capture, I take the hook from its mouth. It shivers and shakes and thrashes. I am a god. I throw it back, and run.

A dust of snow across the ground. Feathers on pavement and bone. My footprints mark the sidewalk to reveal the night cement, naked and dark. I’m on the white leopard’s back, giving it spots, speckling it with my uncertain tread. In front, a woman walks home. I hunt behind her, casting a shadow of unmedicated lust. She quickens her pace. Our boots crunch the snow the way I would crunch her bones, but I don’t pray anymore, so turn the corner. Her scent is lost. My nose is dripping.

The house is real and brick. I swing open the door. Hundreds of snowflakes follow me in, thrown by the bullying wind. They cling to my hair to avoid the heat of the floor. They want to stay made of their beautiful icy skeletons. I shake my boots and head and guts. I kill them all.

The murder count is 79. This does not include the things I do in Spring. My mother burns in the fire. I climb the hot stairs. The furnace is rumbling with heavy synthetic season, like a summer of neurotransmitting, but never a break from these hunger, eager prescriptions.

My bedroom is covered in mud and bats and fossils of love. My heart can’t see at night, but the dawn is coming hard and fast. A new dawn. A new dose. A new light. It moves my tired body, always sleeping, always giving everything to dreaming.


They take my mind in Green grey orange yellow cools, to falsely colour in the black lines of my moods.

I always give; retire for the season, and wake the beasts from grizzly hibernation.