I made myself in the room.

The dab of this and that -  it swept me up in the carpet,

flickered a groove,

a voice needing abit of spice to.

 

I tried to uncover myself,

away from the city, to find a place where the outside

could hurt me - amber bites, and a call

that could strip me of the way I stood on two.

 

I took the fast words I hear us talk, shaped them with pliers,

turned the antlers of each to snip the mouths of,

and fashioned an attitude running right up a hill,

the top of which, a thought would come.

 

The speed my hands and feet made,

it set lace to the tune of my panting breath,

and I left my home, lost my face,

kept going forward, the caves of my throat, hot and rare.

 

The trees clawed the colour of my hair; veneers of grey safe

finger clotting fur, and my black lined lips,

parted slightly - something red in me for me to grin,

lowering my head, all the better for this.

 

My neck snapped; the alcohol of the moon,

turning the top of me on my back,

scratching my skin in the snow. Jaws dripped

ice deliciously so,  a laughter rooted in the sky

 

drawing a group of it to suckle at my breast

and for that I kept myself alive,

watching the blood of padding wrists

in the white.

 

That needle right inside makes you think mad things

beautiful enough to act upon,

writhing, in love,

with rabies and howling.