Wednesday, September 25, 2013


They’ve told the strangest stories searching for
a cure, when beasts and saints wage war  for change
within the skins of men. These addled tongues
a wag, their howling hips a thrust like dogs
in heat or fever; madness unexplained
until they fix the silver to the blame:
A bite or scratch, a circled stream of piss,
a sip of rain from Satan’s fetid paw-
print. Judas wants his just reward. Return
the traitor’s kiss and find your mind restored,
or dance with Salome and dinner plates
to offer hemispheres of left and right,
your baptized globes of mercury. This taste
for blood and sex is lupine hunger.  Wolf,
they say. A hunted fiend. A lunatic.
Demonic feral canine, caught and fluxed,
now wailing at the swollen moon. You pray
to be released--to know renewal found
in waving palms, in calm and darkened skies,
in hope of changeless rest before the nail
arrives that pierces your lycanthropy.

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