All prints are weak
since sorted through the clutter.
Jump down one’s throat
to tear up bloody streams.
I carry paws
where death can den and dream.
My nose, it leads
and knows the laws of slaughters.
The nose is cold.

I keep the track
as eyes of pimps on hussies.
The tangled steps
are soaked in moonlit mesh
that squeezes juice
as well as senses flesh
until the nerve
stays numb and bones make fossils.
Oh nerve of Lord!

I have to feast –
warm blood with meat and weakness,
that runs on fears
so jaws are dripping wet.
The blood hits snow
by burning holes with red,
like wearing slugs
or growing blues in bleakness.
How much to hold?

A crystal clear
tear, heaven is a kerchief.
Its vessels brim
with brackish water in,
with love within
a paternoster tin.
The bones are stripped,
enamel slides meat-searching.
What’s left to hoard?

The hunger sleeps,
the feet don’t run and careless
about the furs
in silver-sparkled cowls,
about what’s left
inside the Moon-fed-bowl –
lap up the time,
one day I make you airless.
I’m Wolf – behold!