Tuesday, September 19, 2006

Raised by Wolves

Soundtrack: You Am I / Purple Sneakers

I walk the streets of a Wild West town, find a trough filled with water and duck my whole head underneath the mirror image of myself.

It awakens the poet.


I was raised by wolves. Me, an infant lost in a Bavarian Forest. Who left me or where I came from I know not. All I know is that was the case and now I am here.

My first memory is of being bitten on the arm by my brother. My second is years later biting him back, tearing fur and blood savage and brute from his neck until whining and wheezing he crawled behind a tree and lay dead. And I, taller, leaner, bipod, holding my hands aloft and howling wolf like dripping blood from inside incisors.

We ran after that day. 12 wolves and I. Ran and ran, grey arrows from the bow, I the tip, growing stronger each day, the fletching of my pack trailing behind me, howling at their unlikely leader, a boy, a man, a human, different. The same. Oh how the fucking same, those wolves and I.

We ran until the trees grew thinner, the smell of blood before us, the temptation of a brave new world. Of easy pickings. And fresh fucking meat. Animal, claw and fang, grinning our grins, our very nature plain for all to see.

Until we emerged at the edge of an unknown land. A forest made of steel and glass, stretching to the heavens, cacaphonic with silver animals we had never seen.

My pack turned and fled.

I walked straight in.


Tales from the edge of insanity, some say. Proof of his madness, I hear. Pity and scorn and tut tut shaken heads far from my eyes as though I could not see or hear.

So I sat. That's all. Just sat. And first on the agenda was clearing the mind, the addled mind, eight months, 20 years. Waited for all that to go away, and as it slowly began to...

I listened.

Then I spoke.

And the reply came:


Intense indeed.

This is what has been hidden.

But here it all comes.


The arms and fingers and stares and pokes and flashes and lights and gasps and guffaws did not frighten me. I frightened them. I made them see what could happen if they left their cosy steel forest. I showed them the insanity, the rawness of life outside the world they had created. I showed them they were one step away from tasting the blood of their brother and they were afraid. Oh they hid it behind pity, they hid it in laughter, and in their own packs they felt safer, better about themselves...

But at night, when they were alone. They were afraid. Afraid of their own nature. In those first weeks, this made me strong, made me grin, made me evil in my self protective scorn.


Now I walk the streets of this man made wood and I remember the beauty I found running with my brothers and sisters, the wolves. The honesty in them. The intensity of them. The realness.

But I don't turn and run.

I hold it within, and use it to deal with you. With this. With what I must face and what I must achieve, but more importantly HOW I must do these things.

And the wolves howl, over the horizon, and I listen and laugh. For theirs is no maudlin cry nor mating ritual, it is a song.

Live the life of a song, they sing. You, our blood brother, alone in that world, live the life of a song.


Here in the Wild West town I am outcast.

And that suits me just fine.

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