In the hour of dogs

in the hour of dogs
every human voice
is hushed 

night is our scavenge 
us and the watchboots
no stranger dares

we prowl as kings
we are the claws and noses
we are the grip

that stalks on stiff legs
rotting ribs and vertebrae
and hostile ankles

the steam of our piss
rises past the towers
and dims stars

The Curse of her Sex

She is afraid that her life is dwindling into an endless succession of excuses, justifications, evasions, diminutions, failures. She sees before her an endless corridor, with each door locked by her own hand. She cannot understand why this is so, after such struggle! Surely she should have learnt something by now?

Now she listens to the monotone of a fly bumping a grimy window, condemned to an eternity of proving that one and one equals two. No matter how many times the proof is made, it will always appear to be another equation altogether. A transcendent laughter buffets her ears.

 Of course, if she is smart she will eschew proofs. But her punishment will nevertheless be exactly the same.

She was always too proud for her own good. And the window is shutting already. A storm is coming this way, and she has forgotten that the corridor leads into a garden, where raindrops will fall on the dust with a hot, chemical smell that belongs to all the summers of her childhood.