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“I want a mythology that can’t be referenced”

one of us must be the Story Teller
and one listen:

He is never mine boy
made of nine-tails

tossed in a fever, words
like laudanum

make little sense to
the fox lad in

red goose-down,
a lavish bark stripling,

prodigal yip while
letters writhes in the

air over his bed, he
(gender vulgar

yet warm) of the nine-
tails each no bigger

than the joint of
his finger woke, silly

little cough in his
breast (breast of breasts) came

in a flurry of
distractions and fur

so he shook the water-
pipe. He woke and

shook his head his fever finally broken,
my words on his wall gone –