Black Dog

by Gabriel Tocu



My dog flattens ecosystems

he brings nuclear winter nights

                                    long and empty

to the xanax cities
                               to the song of fetishist joy

… and the water just stretches in faraways

and the water swallows shadows

and the water takes over my mother


My dog has marrow in the bone

                                    textured and patterned by

                               spermicidal rises

of thousands of christs

medused in perplexity

with their joker grins

with their burnt eyes

with their didactics

confessed in spines

never-ending and begotten

               “figurative communicability” you said
               grotesque bitch
               sister of whiteness
               exaltation of life
               source of their liberty
thus you hang over the brides

                            the towers the cannons the icons

                            the sleepless

                            the nukes

carted off dust memory of your seer’s vision

yet present and perfect in your simplicity


My dog is every little fear of mother and father

thy fear of otherness

thy sky of highness,

minister of the pledge

My dog is well-dressed, just like the devil

My dog is well forgotten, just like your innerness


                            exhausted stumbling

brings us (the foolish people, the lovely people, the dreaming people,
               the loud people, the engaged people, the trustful people,

               the sanctimonious birds – the red crows crucified on dots of  


the voice of the dead

and he screams and he faints and he drinks

               a forever-dying symbol of sexual bereavement


oh, how simple to
               grind yourself to grind it all to grind and



My dog opens doors to your long-gone days

and to remains when nothing will matter anymore

to the shutter of forgotten limbs

where we’ll engrave our meager

               bruises on pedophile walls

time when buildings fall apart

and cloven bodies piously offer their wreath of guts

to putrefaction

just like a syphilitic mandala

of useless history

The Hour the very hour when the dragon

smile in the light

turns to sand untouchable

radioactive and clean
the holy the holy



My dog left back his exhalation

and passed away his million years’ seclusion

his registers of abandonment

with his grief alone – no past no future – he walks in a

continuous freezeness

to the wooden shed



None have seen him ever since

None remembers

Some say he’s a prophet

Some say he is a god

a mad one, a rolling sphere

on the web of the world


One of these days his shadow will cut us all in little pieces

One of these days his yellow eye

will rise unique in soliloquy

unbury the crude morning light

and bear it to the unborn children.

Black Dog

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