I trace the spaces where your fur doesn't grow
This red gown will make a shroud good as any other.
What skeletons you’ll journey with ere it is forced to feed you.
Something like that kiss - remember?
I want to claim this city, fold it into my marrow and grow it all over again, its artificial stars heaving raw electricity like Tesla hungover, nurture its naked precipices snapping at the night; I will render it precious, the White City, immortal as sin. Adoptive mother, tucking in a million beds: all its junkies … Continue reading Shikaakwa