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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