Howl something
you want heard,
guaranteed
you’ll be hunted.
Howl something
sweet and it won’t
matter either.
Someone will start
a murder club built
for your friends,
holding contests
for the most killed.
They’ll shoot, yell,
smoke you out of
your own company,
take a sharp right
when they could’ve
made a left turn,
leaving the cold
meats of a movement
quelling in the sun.
Gunned-up hides,
dogs barking backward.
Our growls only get
more bountiful from
here, honey.
A gust through a forest
of lowered eternities.
When a baby comes,
they’re born on behalf
of the lost.
