The foreign land is sewn by the wolf's eye. The foreign land that looks away. The foreign land that postpones the lives of its dogs. Some barks mean come over. Some barks mean nothing to you. Ask yourself what is jailed in the eye and I will free it until it can never be seen. From a prey's vision, there is nothing the rapacious will never get. From a wolf's, love is not seen, is not crime.
Departing from its persistent pack, the wolf teaches a dog how to be scared. The nose near the broken ground. The eyes to kiss your feet. The mouth that resists to be understood, unstill. The night pulls open its longest spine. The night pulls open what a cry cannot repossess from you. This is not enough: there needs to be luminous asterisks in the soot sky, there needs to be some hypothetical the eye will have to hold on to and see unmoving. The wolf says it is breadth of life by way of a claw on the dog's forehead. The wolf says it is mine, not your blood, those strokes beautiful eyebrows make. Because a dog in covert panic is disobedient, it will never let killing; it will only bite the nearest leg to mean give me a moment. The dog says, makes nothing else; I am not animal anymore.
Let us remember how we came into this wild, all those successes of plinth feelings. There was a rain. There was a sound, a dilatory, a bind, a delay because you were searching for my lips. There was a line of trees that ended somewhere a plateau was made by the eyes looking stable. There was a flap of skin against another. There was a drop that tasted wine. There was a taste that shackled growth, or baffled what we were. There was a land; the foreign in it was love. There was sweetness biting the dust of sweetness. But why is your blood a sugar? Why is sugar to be gnawed when it is supposed to melt? asked the wolf, trying to be mild. Say everything is personal. Say all smiles everywhere are making the teeth less sharp. Gentleness is human; it can never be yours, but there is a massive fur in it that our bodies never could trim, that which we decided to call the best moment of the match. Tell me if you are ready for this and I will look away. I will postpone the killing. I can wait for that strongest kiss: a cuddle of the tongue, that floor of your mouth, allowed to glide loose, over the dog’s blood, melting and translated into a color suspended in the air, which makes your red, red tongue predatory.
The wolf scratches the dog's skin, nearly alive. From this a coat falls like a jaw that untimely recognized it was not given even a single tooth and then the place suddenly becomes an ice plant melting without me; I cannot look away: the eye is a process of learning that has no time, no individual opening, no turning back. The knives of your mouth all stowed in the dog's neck. Here is a study that puts forward a variant of itself—let us call this bestiality if love is unrecognized as more audacious than us—in which animals are narrated for which they were made. Here is the dog speaking for the first time Your house is not here. Your house is that place I cannot see. This reminds me of where I am; rescued by a hunter which means your beast life and all it had an eye for fell in a trap. Inside the hunter's hinged pocket watch, you are nowhere and cold. Inside the hunter's house, I'm allowed, at least, to beg Let us not forget that love is human. Let us not forget what we are when we cannot be. I call him God. I call him when I want to see you smelling me fail the attempt, be it the loudest of dogs' barks, to look away.
By B.B.P. HosmilloQLRS Vol. 13 No. 3 Jul 2014