Today is the day I will go truly berserk.
First, I will remove all of my clothing
and grease my skin with cattle butter,
and don a pair of fancy antlers, and walk out into the bright
I will make like a wily beast along the city’s edges and hedges
and run-down boozers and casinos and posh noshing houses and
secret brothels, and all the corrupt spaces –
crushing salmon sandwiches beneath my toes, and fig
and almond tarts, and kicking twee carts up into the air.
Like Toxic Animal, I will drop to my knees and poop in the
hats and houses of jaded politicians and drug lords,
making a poop collage of it all;
nab their Bollinger, slurring as I go
and carry their small dogs away.
Animate and feverish,
hoofs curled loosely around a fat cigar –
which induces bouts of hysterics, and balancing the empty
Bollinger bottle on my head –
I will raise my hind leg for the final time
and dash out my musky signature over the entire