phosphorylated intermediates



the rats bleed and the dogs are silent
there is no mystery in the vivarium at midnight
we are alone with the victims of our curiousity
crossing the line between humankind and beast
we, voracious for cerebralized carnage
they, noble and pathetic in dumb suffering

sterile subjects of a sterile domain
awaiting patiently their terminal cut
while urbane bebop fills the room
these little bodies, these cellular black boxes
filled with tiny anatomies and protoplasms
cinch the leaden cast of our fate

in the morning comes a howling of dogs
chilly devil's harmony born of the deep forest
far beyond the reach of the probe
hippocampal memory of the primeval pack
bristling with the scent of fresh blood
the hair on my neck standing straight up