Stretching like a black salmon he downs her. They tangle, a spinning mangled yang and yin made fast with nails and [...]]]> Here in The Hells you hear songs:

Werewolves Saturday Night

Prophesied by whispers of claws on asphalt,
two wolves tear -
their barks like ripping books
and bone breaking stone.
They are larger than life – they bleed
and breathe smoke through long teeth.

Stretching like a black salmon
he downs her. They tangle,
a spinning mangled yang and yin
made fast with nails and fangs turning
like a hurricane. Her lipless face
fires like a gun
removing an eye. A belly opens
a paw thrust in.
They spin. . .

. . .A vise hugging a vise, silent. Her jaws
enclose his cock-eyed skull.
Steaming confounded webbed in entrails,
he kicks. She squeezes, aching for brains.
He kicks her further open.
Stiffening she snorts red,
and he sneers, suffocating,
pinned under rods of rain.

By daylight, they’re a human couple,
bald and pink and washed.
They fill the street like smashed sculpture,
steam slipping away like spirits.

—