I’m addicted. Addicted to this ludicrous little fox. 
Chase through forest pines. 
Incoherent rush. 
The sun doesn’t shine. 
Better measured dash – 
admit you enjoy the chase – 
suspended fast over undergrowth, 
and the hounds. 
Psychological thriller. You’re outfoxed. 

Survival. Heavy breathing. The blue arc above. Boredom. 
Under the Boardwalk. Feelin’ myself. White leather beds. 
Involuntary visions. Towers. Terror. Pitbulls. A sinner’s prayer 
tied with string. 
Turn a blind eye to your pickled misconception. 
Row upstream though it was harder in those days. 
Are you OK, internationally speaking? 
Where were you just now? 
At the country club? 
Then. Results are in. On edge having fun on exploitation. 
Charity. Salary. Donate blood. Television evangelism. Adopt a 
puppy. New Clothes. Decapitation and disembowelment. One 
– step forward. Two – keep me informed... 
of zen, of the latest sports results, and above all of the botnet, 
transubstantiation, tourism and urban drift. I couldn’t see a 
sign. I’m in dedicated denial of your deity. 

Congratulations you saved amateur radio. Let it go. 
Where is the nearest brothel? You’ll find her there. 


First published in "Brief" and then in "Selection" 2018.