An Animal

“I change shapes just to hide in this place.
But I’m still, I’m still an animal.
Nobody knows it but me when I slip.
Yeah, I slip.
I’m still an animal.”

– “Animal”, Miike Snow (2009)


She wants me to write it. He wants me to write it.

Maybe they want me to write it.

I don’t know who wants me to write it anymore.

Maybe they all want it.

My decadent descension into this and that: pick the flavor, pick the end-fall. It’s dark and it’s light.

It’s all been tied up in too many things I can’t say; and too many things I can.

Sing along in my poetry and see if you can figure out what it means.

That’s the game now.

Tra-la-la-la-la. And certainly, ha ha.

And whence we go?

Well, shit, my friend, nobody knows.

* * *

I’ll tell you this, though: there are no easy answers.

I set out, lost. Came back lost more.

Some might call it mid-life. Some might call it mid-lost.

I call it neither.

All I know is at some point, I lost it all.

No idea who I was, where I was going.

Just sweaty palms and dizzy.

Sometimes in a staff meeting; sometimes, with the family, alone, on the couch, Jeopardy! in the background.

It doesn’t much matter where.

It’s just matters that.

It’s a bigger thing.

A smaller thing.

An incomprehensible thing.





And what can I grab?

I’ll grab this.

You, my friend.

You’ll listen.

And can I hold you …

… as I slip …?



Please hold me.

Because I’m falling.




My fingers grasp.

You try.

But here I go …

… oh no.

Oh, sure.

It’s just my bed again.

I’ll sleep.

Until I can pull myself up.

Surely, you know this routine.

Don’t lie.

You know it.

* * *

The worst thing about writing it is the worry.

Like somehow you can’t be fully functioning and feel lost.

Through the grapevine, I hear the calls: “Is he okay?”

Fuck yeah, motherfuckers, he’s okay.

When did it become wrong to question?

God damn, get some self-security.

A self-sure, a self-secure person, is probably an asshole.

You might want to look at those fools and check with their loved ones.

Are they okay?

But, seriously, Porsche makes a rad car.

* * *

Bite-y, bite-y, bite-y.

I like things with bite.

And who doesn’t?

But this is all a way to deflect, isn’t it?

It’s easy to deflect.


Make everybody look right, when the real action is stage left.

So, take a look.

What do you see?

Uncertainty? A family?

Four souls?


That’s what I see.

* * *

They’re innocent, you know.

No expectations.

No exposure to the darkness.

They don’t know we dwell alone.

They don’t know the whole story.

That’s our burden.

Sticky as it is.

We wear the mask.

Will wear the mask.

Until someone rips it off.

You, too, huh?

Sure, it shreds us apart.

We’re broken.

Me and you.

Me and you.



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