#apexpredator
All God's angry creatures
Converge on the edge of camp
A blaze to keep away the unwanted woodland creatures of nightfall
Ready to cauterize the wound, red hot metal forcefully coagulates the skin
Help me take this knife & scrape away the rot
Narcisstic nails pierce my irises
Details I for once will spare you
Breaking my spine in the deadwood
******* down my bone marrow
Uncomfortable glances make me uneasy & sickened to my stomach
Wolves snarl through the snow banks
A quest for crimson flesh lies burdened
Make a break for the dark trees
When your intuition says run, then run...
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 4:07 AM UTC
And the fish swim in the lake
and do not even own clothing.
– Ezra Pound
How would they style themselves for the net,
the little fishes of the lake?
Not robes of purity, Ezra,
but sequins cut from trash,
brands bright as lures,
fashioned to catch the eye, a glint of sun.
Would the big ones strap on knockoff fins
to flex in shark cosplay near the shore,
snapping reels in the reeds,
captioned #greatwhitevibes #apexpredator?
Would carp veil themselves in algae,
funeral couture,
posting stories of their grief in green?
Would they admire the fishery tags:
industrial piercings they can’t remove,
or the hook-slit scars from catch-and-release,
each one a verified badge,
proof they were trending once, briefly,
before sinking out of frame?
Would they tilt to the water’s glass,
checking which gill looks slimmer,
tails arched like influencers at golden hour,
the shimmer hiding shame,
the shame we taught them to wear?
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 2:34 PM UTC