Dog or wolf.
Verse, or prose.
I choose to sing to the hairless
who silken my path with their killings,
my hills and plains being pitted
with cattle and cities and middens.
They reek of nerves, arrogant.
I raise my nose, jubilant.
We crouch, we loom.
An agglomeration of moons tumbles through my glottis / Mistress / I yawn and obey / mooncommands / dawn to musk / night and sight / fall and water / sheep and herd / the eye-stalk-chase motor pattern homologue / moonrules Mistress / discipline or perish / verse and prose.
Who’ll choose to croon to the hairless?
Who’s wounding? Who’s sounding? Who’s pooling?
Who reeks of grass, ruminant?
Who’ll rise as noise, ululant?
Mistress / I set up a gentle howling / tomb or toy / and now I am about / wyrd or ward / now I am wholly towards / play or prey / ave, vale / which is it to be, Huntress?
I hear with ears that point upwards.
Eagerness valleys my backbone.
Satisfaction curls over my tail.
Good lupo; optimum dog.
Read at the museum in the January 2013 gallery performances