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In the green flesh of Happy Valley
I lay in ambush
waiting for them to come
like birds into glass.
With me
I have my dog, because I say he is mine
and I have named him Fuckit.
And the jungle dawn is late rising.
And the tree above me
pisses a black gel down my back.
I am a lung that throws bullets
like air,
like planting seeds through
their cancerous minds,
as they drop into rice patties.
This is how I deal with it:
scared and mad,
cuz scared means still alive
and mad means staying that way.
Later,
in the red sweat of morning,
I will ooze down Happy Valley,
into its folds of skin,
and me and Fuckit will breathe green seeds
like splitting atoms.
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