A wolf with a few red petals in a square snout
Barks from a throat like a sphincter like a fan
The blades whirling and releasing grey fog
While a black VCR in the background chews the time

The time is a small dog frisking on the wolf’s nose
Sort of like a brown scorpion with its tail up
Meanwhile a frail X carved in the fog
Spills blood through its south-west quadrant, from a wound

In the map produced by creating it
Whenever they organize something, it just traps
Some non-combatant in darkness, on the disconnected end
Of a phonecall to utopia

And the sun doesn’t rise, it just leaks in
In some goldarned hideous form that makes us blush