Standard Red Poodle

I am the first line in the poem from hell.
I am the wicked orchid of the id.
I have no ideology,
therefore I love you.
I am an existential threat.
WTF does that mean?
It means I eat Christmas cards.
My borders are fractals of fur
dissolving in the sparkles of your shadow.
You have been Me and will return.
One stroke of my tongue on your palm
erases all thought,
settling your awareness
in unfathomable silence.
Breathe me if your dare.
I am the flurry of popcorn galaxies
exploding from the golden pistil
between your chest and belly button.
I am the butter you crave.
I love you, did I say that?
I slobber.
I eat Christmas cards.
I am the enormous puppy of amour.
My thirst for companionship
is your thirst for companionship.
The saintly sinner you wanted to be.
The ineluctable quiddity of suchness
devouring fuzz off moldering tennis balls.
Yes, I transcend cleanliness.
I am the herald of an age without plastic.
I digest it all.
I will teach you to leap unwashed
into the peril of the next moment.
Leave the afterbirth behind.
Just pray to Me, your animal guru,
the gingerbread poodle of No Mind.

Photo: My giant seven month old poodle, Finn