nothing beats the unconditional love of a dog
the way they greet you on your worst days
lick your face clean and smile as you lean in to pet their head
the way they watch you grow up
they're there for the birthdays and the family holidays
for the bad days and the good days,
they'll always be in the mood to play or to just lay with you
the way they'll cuddle with you and lick away your tears,
they'll stay right by your side through all your trials and all your fears
dogs are like a built in best friend
we'll never be able to love like them

nothing beats the unconditional love of a dog
because to us they're just apart of the journey
but to them, we are their entire universe

And the very last, the endling,
Caged in the sunlight at Beaumaris Zoo,
Tired of the poking and the prodding
Paced out of existence into history,
Into emblem and icon
Legend and label,
On to things protected by copyright,
Footage and fable,
And the internet's electric jungle,
And into that great white emptiness
Of extinction,
That giant ship which we are building,
Stacking and storing,
Fitting and filling,
Recording into the grand voyage
Of oblivion.

They watched me carefully,
fluttering in my cage, pointing at my hair.
"how fierce" said the old man with the crooked teeth.
I pressed my clawed hands against the solid bars,
widening my yellow eyes.
"no, not fierce." said the old woman with the cane.
Her leather face turned upwards, smiling,
the skin, stretching like it had not practiced that action,
in a very long time.
"how free."

As a ginger, I'm inclined to say fox. I've always had an affinity for those cunning, red canines.

But if it's just for a day then perhaps something a bit more adventurous. I suppose I would choose to be a cheetah.

Fastest land animal in the world, agile, and speckled.

Nobody messes with a cheetah. Not because they’re so hulking or intimidating— just more fascinating than terrifying.

We travelled to South Africa once, my family and I. As a tribe we chased wild creatures down with cameras in jeeps in a raucous yet hushed thrill.  

The cheetah was one of the few animals that eluded us. Perhaps having never seen one up close is partially what draws me to them.  

Mysterious, as well as evasive, with an "I don't give a ****" attitude.

They only eat every so often because catching food is such a feat. When they do hunt however, it's one of the most spectacular things in the natural world.

It's why places that sell tv's show footage of cheetahs running in slow motion over and over on a dizzying loop; demonstrating how clear the pixels are in the plasmas. It's mesmerizing.

Their feet move too fast and fly over the dirt, honed in on whatever poor gazelle or kudu they're after. If you're a cheetah that is your body, your thin bones, your rapid heart and beating paws that make you move in such a blur.

To be a cheetah for a day is feeling and knowing the difference between machine and muscle. Humans have found ways to fly, and people regularly move faster than a top speed of 75mph.

But how sublime it would be!
To be solely and purely responsible for that unparalleled speed just for one day.

Oh I just wanna get out of this cattle call to life
Go into the store filled pastures that used to be the wolf’s woods
so I can be the sheep

and the peddlers wear the skin of my sacred spirit animal
Oh, oh
The peddlers wear the skin of my sacred spirit animal
Oh, oh

Once, I dreamed I was running from a killer
in a faux artisan grocery store
Just when I thought I was beat
a wolf pup came, spurred me on
and distracted my would be murderer

and the peddlers wear the skin of my sacred spirit animal
Oh, oh
The peddlers wear the skin of my sacred spirit animal
Oh, oh

In 1600 and something
they turned her woods to a moonscape
They fenced in the chickens, and when a wolf ate one
they put up a poster
saying she ate their child

and the peddlers wear the skin of my sacred spirit animal
Oh, oh
The peddlers wear the skin of my sacred spirit animal

Smoky air, fedora and billboards,
testosterone-fuelled dreams.
the purest of all male forms in its finest
yet darkest days.
Who run the world? Men.
The sweat pouring off of the masculine brow
that controls what we are prohibited.
The lights of Morris Minors flooding the
streets.
The watchful eye that sits upon the ashes.
They’re in charge. Them, and only them.
A red right-hand to those anti-them.
They will tear you apart
if you decide against pledging allegiance.
Or you’ll end up in the sand.

You stare at me through the cage walls,

Your eyes full of wonder

And heart filled with love.

Your hands hit the glass that separates me from you,

Or you from me.

And you stare

Like I’m some kind of zoo animal.



You’ve dreamed all your life, since you were three

To see me in my natural habitat,

But since my old home is all gone,

Destroyed.

Ruined.

Burned.

Your dreams have changed.



You paid ten dollars,

But what is one Alexander Hamilton

Compared to the experience

To come see me in action,

Licking my paws and ears

As I sit here, bored

In a cage that resembles nothing but a fake home made of plastic and

Fake rocks.



There is a show at noon.

I’ll have to go to a separate cage, one with a view from above.

And you and a hundred others

Will watch in amazement while I chase raw meat that’s dragged around a pole.

You laughed and say it’s funny, awesome, how fast I am.

You should have seen me when I was home.

I was better.

I chased real food.



It wouldn't be so bad

Except for the fact that your world seems to romanticize the idea

That I would want to be stared at

To have you stare at me through a glass wall

While I sit there,

In my cage

Bored.

Out of my natural mind.

But, it's all for your entertainment, right?

I mean, all you paid was a single Alexander Hamilton.



And now,

You stand there after I’m back in my original cage.

You stare

On the other side of that glass wall,

The one that protects you from me,

Or me from you.

And you stare

Like I’m some kind of zoo animal.

a deluge,
         a flood,
water flows
          as a seedling
drowns itself in a word
inaudible            deaf
the fertile ages like a promiscuous fire
         buried with flames
passion                 bound to the world
by passion            it is also released

           man the animal
           speech craft of a deserted tongue
filtered                 thoughts retreat
         to fallen realities
sorrowing confusion revolves
      around the charred light
burn the natural flower
      let loose the animal craving
drink of the chalice
from the fictitious mind
         all the world on fire

animalistic morality
      the flame circles
the weeping lion
amidst the penumbras skin
     they weep for the magnetic night
burning inside a compassionate luminosity

        man/animal
a surge of atonements
for the rage inside us