All this thinking, thinking, thinking…
leads to an anxiety crystalised as what others call depression,
but I know as…
the logical outcome of living anywhere near to honest as the forest…
for what keeps me going,
other than my beloved beady eyed savage hound,
and elder pixie niece,
and memories of fairytales gone agony which crushed every bone of my soul,
is Nature beyond humanity…
but i cant lick and fuck and taste and devour this Nature,
and it inspires me only to calmness,
when my own nature is not the waves or wind,
its weasel and fox and honey badger…
so I seek within my own accursed flock,
what nourishes the spirit,
what causes the wolf of my Wilderness to lick his mangled fangs,
stretch his old limbs,
yet emerge from his cave ready for war.
I am staggered, forced to accept the majority bowing,
offering up their prescription of liberty,
to proven mass murderers…
They Know best eh!
Knowledge is not power,
only the mega rich spout such nonsense.
For I am old enough to wish I knew less.
Not able to lead the revolution…
so eager for the Wilderness,
the naked feral and free,
prancing in the wild waves of the full moon,
dancing in the forest my lower paws on the earth…..
tearing off tights on the heath.