Tonight he stencilled a monkey toting guns, coloured pink with Che Guevara's profile kissing Mao on the headboard of your mind.
He slogan neon'd Love, Love Me Do across the wall and now it's beetle dunging permanent in the lowest levels of the souk that is your shy be-flooded soul.
Pull up the sheets and cancel out his brown dark light of history. Kill hard the insect. A cardboard cut-out
brain wet sprayed against one wall
is not the man you want, this pale weak bedroom Banksy.
He's no artist, never has been, and all
his words are ripped from other authors. Trust only wine and be yourself
get out and steal the world.
The time has come for unposturing
and graffiti under nails: hand-ground
scratch-fired and molten-gold
enfiguring - abstract
and Mona Lisa
The wolf-bear asleep on your chest is finally teeth quiet, fur no longer bristling in its purr.
Between growls, its long-clawed pads are at your face and you can smell hares dreaming through new pine cone light as it hunts you over ice.
Today, like every day, it returned with fresh silver dead for approval. You comb and groom carefully, fleck nailed and blood-fingered, aware of its terrible flensing blade temper.
It knows to be wary around you, too -
you, who gets angrier faster and grislier.
Night after night you go out, taking turns to check the deep springing traps you lay
asleep with each other.
It is your best and first love, strapped tight to you - a bone-rooted, sun-muscled spree, tundra-long howling with all of its excellent maleness into you.
Bio: Jim Hyde is originally from Ireland and now lives in Ireland. Three books of poetry published (visit lismorebooks.com), and a big fan of poetry that grabs, shakes, empassions and releases the reader to new, greater places.