I am minister to porcupines – my sermons written in quills too barbed for poets – you will need pliers to extract my meaning. I light cigars for whales in their whisky bars, pour two flukes of courage on the rocks, stiffen their resolve – whale-roads long and cold around the Horn. I lay a feast before the pack. ”Who’s a good boy?” Maybe I am. That which is owed to jaw and carcass. Who am I, Spiritus Mundi? That vast intelligence of body and beast? No, I am who I said before: Animeax, patron saint of spit and howl. I am but seagulls flying low this side of the river. Listen to them scree for bread and circus.
For Desperate Poets
qbit 
I yield the infernal pulpit to you! Well done.
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LoL! Thanks! (I think!)
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words fail me (in praise of this – and I did not need pliers) but evidently they never fail you
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Laura – thank you ever so much. Glad you did not need pliers!!
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I felt I ought to approach this offering cautiously, Randall — not wanting to blaspheme; not sure if I should look for the point, or evade it. It is classic qbit. Well done!
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If you figure out what it means, please let me know.
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There’s a sting in this that comes from more than just a physical spine, and also a grace. Life in our times requires pliers, and snakebite cures, and the ability to offer solace to the tippling whales///if you want to be real. Sorry to have been gone so long, qbit–I’ve missed reading you.
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Thank you! I’ve been slow to get anything out recently, have missed you too.
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