Ripping silver mist ~ Is the chainsaw ignition ~ Of a bark in rut.
Open under a seared brow, And set in thick and rolling skin, Wobbling But glimmering under a head of horns: A beest’s inky eye.
In the rage, I cut my shape in granite skies, With horns twisted and skyward In the rage, I stand like a gnarled cathedral Wrought with hot hammers and tongs.
On the dry dazzle of baked crust Dusty stilettos clop As the donkeys in striped pyjamas End a rough night With a few thirsty gulps.
After trying to explain to the London Underground surveillance team I wasn't a security threat (badgers are subject to this sort of suspicion around the clock), me and Louise were soon blending in with other creature inspired humans from all over the U.K. (and some as far as Uganda we were told!) as we streamed... Continue Reading →