rise up
Imagine my dismay at finding out that the paws of a new born red fox are not yellow after all but black. I learned this after I had spent all day trying to get the colors in the fingers just so. I played around with the ideas that maybe I could get finger tips to look black but all that ended up happening was I looked like I had big blobs for fingers. Not exactly the effect I was hoping for.
Rise up. Rise up. Rise up, my desire.
Tell me your sad, bad woes. This love expands
like a slow burst. Flame. I am all fox fire.
All flesh oracle. Desire commands
that I divine soft-line grooves in your flesh.
Let me touch your woes. Let these fox-pup hands
read you; melted fat like crushed horseflesh fresh
from the tanner. Mad; the tale of Swamplands
Gal at the Crossroad with the White Devil.
Sad; dune grass piercing skulls in the black sands
of a beach. Gospel. We all have gospel
hymns to tell. There is no truth that demands
this, but still, what the hell — let these fox-pup
hands touch you. Rise up. Rise up, hell! Rise up!