On this dull grey day, even at this age,

something (a whiff?) follows me, reminds me

I am redundant. What you’d call, “slave wage

living.” Something that turns yearning dreary.

Vexes my predatory drive. Wrecks sleep.

Checks my stunning blows. Hexes restless limbs.

Broken canines worn down to stubs. Makes cheap

all my bloody hungers. Infects my whims,

turning them violent. Cold follows me. *If*

this was sex I’d tease you while I rampage,

call you, “juicy.” But I don’t praise my prey,

let cats bat that shit around. A whiff

of cold follows me. And rage,

even at this age, on this dull grey day.