Hunters | bring in the dead things to show us | pelts of velvet brown partly | stripped off | smooth | pinks and crimsons | They show us their knives | to open the sloppy | jewel boxes for take-aways | to stews and broths | We say we wanted | living things | How true is that? | Not wholly true | We cannot | account for these | hungers, we found them | inside us, we cannot | escape them, either, no matter how we | run, and run… | Hunters…

Thoughts like gas drift through the room | They make us torpid | I have this feeling… | I want to go outside | and run and run | Find some altitude | some place away | from you and invites and porcelain | We drag in | lolling carcases | of stars | the heads of state | The clubs are full | the streets are buzzing | the city juggles pulses | I say | I want to die | but there is mist in the morning | a fresh | calm | clear and pure as the light | in a young boy’s eyes, a light | he doesn’t know | is living there, and I | am hungry…


from the series fleeting pixel (series of 1,000 poems, 2012–2016)

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