We admire the jester-king, Mukwa.
We wish to soar with Stoic Miigizi.
We never heard of goats.
We long to match Atlantic Salmon...
in its Herculean achievement.
We are meat of swine.
You spoke to me... of the playfulness of Otter.
You talked me into a case of Dermatitis Algans.
You lied about your dog.
You scent-lead me into your Minkish den;
My body... grew dependent on honey.
We are “meat of swine”.
I found a baby Robin in the gutter.
It hated me, for bending down to help it.
It shat in my hand.
Penguin stabbed me, in the right kidney.
Goddamn Crack-Penguins.
We are “meat of swine”.
They lead Jolie BIRCH to Randy Moose.
They pickled the seed of Archie Belaney.
They suckled vitreous humour, from Sabé.
They bolster PC campaigns of Slime Eel
and counsel forgiveness.
We are “meat of swine”.
Nanabush sleeps off the hangover of five hundred years
and never wakes to help, any more.
But, occasionally, he will chuckle in his sleep and
some military jet falls out of the sky.
:Eric C Keast
Molly, demonic labrador retriever.
Tags:
poetry
Fort Frances
Northwestern Ontario
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