That feeling of being watched crept over his back;
it sizzled like fresh moon dust on morning dew,
and a smell of guilt — burned vanilla and hair-honey —
tickled his flaring nostrils.

He sneezed, and licked the gob of mud-snot that covered his mouth.
Eyes still watery, he looked up from the hole in the ground:
Jenny Jones was standing on the front porch, lantern in hand;
he ducked between the flowers.

In order to stifle a yelp of laughter, he held his breath,
for a cliché question carry-whispered itself over Jenny’s lips;
of course there was no-one out there— Christ Almighty!
Did she really think he would answer?

Here he was, risking his life by dragging a dead body
over the neighbours’ lawn, digging a midnight hole in the flower bed
where the blue of the paraffin flame waltzed with the rose buds—
such a fantastic dance of death.

Jenny had one last, urgent glance over her shoulder;
she shut the door and caught her night gown in the slam!
He wagged his tail, scratched away at the swarm of fleas behind his ear,
and placed the pigeon in its grave.

In the amber-smog flicker of the streetlamp
raindrops stick
like molten copper ticks,
and gnaw away at the wrists
of the wrought iron railings.

Boy stares down through corroded metal steps,
takes a breath
of midnight mass crystal ****,
parts his hair with his fingers,
and spits into summer’s face.

Down below a cat hisses in a dumpster,
rats scamper,
and a trash can orchestra
churns out a ****** rhythm
to the tune of traffic jams.

A shiver as Boy feels street corners looming—
one more fix,
then, on legs like tinder sticks,
down the spiral staircase
to where chanceful delights await.

The butter’s too hard.
The pressure of the broken knife handle
leaves imprints of alien-like creatures on her little palm.
Slicing through morning rays like a red-hot blade through butter,
she raises her hand, and inspects the outlandish patterns with curiosity:

A school of koi carp,
teeth as sharp as prison razor wire,
are using their fins to harvest two-headed sunflowers
which are growing from within the tip of a giant scorpion tail.  
Dark clouds are looming over Dragon’s Fang Mountain. The wind is howling.

Ten Bone Warriors
emerge from a grotto— a cavity
at the foot of the mountain, where their bows shine bright,
even in the fading light; wild puffs of excitement steam-fills the air—
the riders’ horses’ nostrils flare— a dance of death tramples over all things white.      

The koi sense trouble;
some dive away and hide between the roots,
they disappear into the scorpion tail’s cracks and craters,
others harvest as fast as their fins can work, craning their necks.
The Bone Warriors’ arrows rain down on the sunflower field. Lightning strikes.

Pop! goes the toaster;
she walks towards the refrigerator,
and rubs her hand on her Spongebob apron.
Her mother inquires how breakfast is coming along;
Nika shakes her head and giggles, says it’s going to be the breakfast ever.