Cur

Curved cortices,
consciousness of the othered,
you lack in your miles
of half-smiles and squander. Incisors
bared, inward-turned, glint
slick with palaver strings—
as sibilant missiles cut
involute trails into a sky
of ruined trajectories. Growling cur
restive.

What I’m Reading:

“But there was so much more hate than any of us had the capacity to understand. Hate seemed to spring from the deepest core of our beings. Years later, all you had to do was peep through a peephole and there it was for anyone to see-a whole world of vitriol, entirely without end. It seemed that rage was what we were made of.”

— Sheila Heti / Pure Colour