12. “For you have died for France and vindicated us”

Translated from the Lycan Book of Poetry
And for what?
Dictate to me, Wolf, vindicate me from the cell in which my soul hast died over and over
What hast thou given? To such an ancient cause as the squabble between beasts!
We are of the same ilk. Blood that has been raised since the Great Land Bridge millennia ago became France and the surrounding sovereign states.
If you must do anything for us, Wolf and if you must lay your fur and bones to rest, do it in the name of that which we love.
And let Gaia sort the defeated.


11. Wonderlust

(don’t worry, I know the word. It’s clever, get it?)

I often wonder,

(get it now?)

more now than when things were comfortable
If I went to get groceries, but instead of going back
to an apartment, in a city that feels cramped despite its
What if I filled up at the gas station. Then took the nearest freeway
probably the 101, drove until I had to pick whether or not to turn around and go back
to the apartment in the biggest small town you’ve ever lived in

Instead drove through the desert. A place I’m reluctant to call home, but still feels so familiar. The heat probably.
What if I found out what was on the other side of that swath of sand and warm colors that remind me of the boat, named after the woman and home to old memories. What if I found something that will make me turn around

I wonder where the trees start. I find myself missing trees.
I wonder how long it would take to hit the other coast.
Remember, if the water is on your left, you’re going south.
I wonder what it’d be like to spin off my axis
concluding that, since I have made it this far,
I should probably just keep going.
I wonder if I sold my car, would it make me enough for *ahem*
I wonder if I’d be missed
by the trees. Or would they grow out of spite, and envy me
for stealing their idea in the first place.

10. Imagine

being voiceless
projecting everything
instead with your fingers
would that not be liberating?

9. First Shift by The Sea

Translated from The Book of Lycan Poetry

Strange. Dost thou feel strange, Wolf? The shifting of the tides, mayhaps?
The time is near. Lunata, in her glory, rises into that endless, beautiful swath of black. T’would be your first vison of her since fangs were sunk into thee.

Dost thou wish to remove thy mask, Wolf? To reveal the riptides in your veins that are only bottled by this, your singular first moon.
Whence she rises you’ll be given free reign. The Wolf inside will be yours to master, from cottage to crest.

Hark! Dost though feel it Wolf? The heat, ever prevalent on a frigid night by the sea. Lo, there! do you see her!? Herself like a siren, with her silent song, beckons you to become what you were meant to be!

8. write me a letter in ink

“Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.”
tbh bae idaf
Quicker? Yes. Same point? Meh.
I know you don’t care
but I’m the one typing. So listen.
If you don’t take the time to write the words
I’ll assume you don’t care.
irl, do you lawl?
I remember when fire was extravagant
and not just how bomb ur seven dollar latte tastes fam.
Lit were the candles in the mansions where This novel was written. That poem was composed because the flickering of the candle in question gave way to shadows that caused the architect of those verses to question the very nature of his being. As a preserver of words, I find the deplorability of the common evolving vernacular to be entirely double un-good.
I suppose it tracks. Orwell called it. Fortunately, I’ll be a decomposed corpse obliterated to ash before humans start speaking explicitly in Acronyms. When I’m that mound of primordial dust. Throw me into a Western blowing wind that will take me to the sea. Where sirens sing with whales in a pitch that would bring nothing but reprieve from the steady decline of a race of creatures that does not deserve the earth as she is.

7. Season of the Fae

translated from The Book of Lycan Poetry

There happens upon a time when
the earth, and the air, and the minerals and the leaves
of Gaia
Hail the glorious sky, remember the victorious dead
lift a horn and drink
to love and life and laughter.
Cabers are flipped straighter. The stane tossed further.
The sheaf put higher off the fork.
Flowing dresses lose their footing
on curves. From shoulders. Creeping towards edges.
Flushed. Muscles strain urging blood to flow faster.
it does. Gasps and pleased sighs always follow. Always.
When the veil is first thin, after being closed off.
For Persephone the Spring She Wolf has returned
And all the Nymphs with her.

6. Coffee in the Morning

whenever the morning might be.
Morning is all the time when
“good morning” is your favorite roast.
flipped. flipped. flipped. read from someone inspirational
and far better with words than I.
Filled with my own hand.
If there’s anything I’m thankful for it’s full journals with
cool lookin’ handwriting.
from here it could go two ways:
one: sex. If it hadn’t been handled already
or even if it had.
Wild. Playful. Feral. Chaotic. then maybe food.
or more pages.
two: fighting which probably hadn’t been handled already
Feral. Chaotic. Wild.
Not much difference you see. then maybe food.
or more pages.
on a perfect day. The latter then the former.
Rough. Primal. then
Soft. Primal.
Notice how when it’s perfect, money doesn’t make an appearance.

5. Sunrise. Lupos’ Crescendo.

translated from The Book of Lycan Poetry

The Moon, my love, my gift. Lunata.
must retire.
A goddess must rest to rule.
Her love. Her Mate, gives playful chase.
Lupos, the light wolf, is bestowed upon by
Her painting of the dawn.
Soft. Like the goddess herself.
Smudges of the beautiful blackness
that fade with the crescendo of his light.
Their playful symphony carries until
our fur and bones are once again given to Gaia.
Would it be blasphemous to howl with him?
To sing with him to his queen?
As we do to her when she rises
and shifts the tides in our blood?
Certainly, it would not.
Song is incorruptible
In the eyes of the light and the dark.
White and Black and Grey wolves
we sing.
– Oryn

4. i think i hope this finds you well

To whomst the contents of this electronic, very bland, correspondence may concern:
“Whomst” is not a word.
Not necessarily.
But it is necessary to tell you the places that we used to go where it was a word, well, they’re brighter now.
And the non-word is quite prevalent in my dictionary.
Brighter now.
More vibrant.
Devoid of your shitty attitude. Oof. Too brash? fuck you, snowflake. I can’t remember the last time I said “sorry” and meant it.
That’s what the people on my side are supposed to call the people on your side, right? Snowflakes?
Funny how in a country where everyone is free to pursue whatever, whichever, whenever with whoever,

we choose to peruse a single side that the partisan partition falls between like a goddamn wigwam.
Knocking heads into uTtEr wOkEfUlNeSs.

I remember the days melting into one psychedelic jelly tape of muscle spasms, Ocean Lights, and sad stories.
Filling pages with graphite doodles instead of inked scribbles before the escorts got home. Staying up listening to your favorite music, because that’s what was going to help us get through the night.  When I sweat so much that my drawings smeared onto my face like some kind of twisted, psychedelic warpaint. I thought I was Van Gough. But bigger, and with both ears.
At that point you shouldn’t look in the mirror though, lest ye glitch and slip into awareness. I did. And I was no longer afraid of myself. I was terrifying. I liked it that way.
I liked it that way.
Because that meant that when you said you were in love with me, that you meant it.
On the streets of that side of town that we stayed up to watch the sunrise in.
I couldn’t sleep, obviously. When you’re iN lOvE such things are menial. So Instead I locked myself out, walked to breakfast, noticed how green the trees were, how crisp the day was, like it had waited for me to arrive and it had vacuumed, put the clean dishes away AND waxed my car.
You cried in the street when you kissed me.
Later. A month or two. I’m railing lines of jet-fuel, and standing in front of a mirror holding an axe. Instead of a B&E and Murder in the Second degree, I load your shit into my hatchback
and a two-man, two-hour job is cut all the way in half when I dump your writing desk in his driveway.
Look at me, waxing poetic.

I wish you longevity, dullness, complacency, conformity, and all of the other things you never thought you’d be, but were set up for anyway.
I wish you all the substances, and none of the inspiration.
I have to admit it, I’ll never forget you.
I have to admit it, you were never The Raven.
You won’t be missed. Not anymore.
– The Wolf

3. Is this too meta?

Poetry is a thing with rules.
More guidelines than actual rules
rhyme this, rhythm that,
make sure it has some kind of flow,
goddammit, if it doesn’t you’re a hack
and you can’t follow the simple rules.

tell me tell me tell me

Tell me this, then, oh Grand Poet Wizard
if I must adhere to your rules, can my lines

tell me tell me tell me

Or will you say “get out?” I must instead
practice law, medicine, science, or some other more noble endeavour. That is where the money is don’t you know?
“I have a friend on wall street,” “my father works for a firm you see,” “What makes you the proper candidate for such a noble endeavor?” I’d say my inability to march in a straight line.

tell me tell me tell me

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