the lakewater near the banks darken with the shadows of coniferous trees not unlike the way my ***** darkened just the other evening with transgression and i find myself waiting,arcing the ash from my cigarette in fiery transient streaks.
this is north west angle's public dock, a sunken relic of the anishinabe appropriately too young to be old just like the ******* rest of us. kee no wahh she spits with conviction, her forked tongue a testament to the near science fiction that keeps its ugly head low to the ground in the backwater communities of rural ontario and manitoba and saskatchewan and beyond.
purple and yellow and green galaxies span across the deep space of my neck and that's good enough, they reckon, to land me in the passenger's seat. now the sun's shallow beneath the canadian shield leaving only a violent, open **** on the skyline and the watered down blood of ritual sacrifice to filter up through the cheesecloth of the underbrush and effectively discolour the poplars in a pastel identical to the lining of my ****
so ask me how many children have been stranded on the pallid, uneven terrain of my thighs and i'll stop making references to my ******