mutilated bear
Foxes prowl London nightly. They feast on rubbish, skirmish and cavort, and tear things to pieces with their teeth for pleasure. One morning I found the aftermath of a teddy bear massacre. I stepped outside to look at its mutilated head and distributed remains. That bear had really been fucked up.
As the poet said, “That bear like is my soul. It only resembled something real, but it provided feelings of security when it was whole.”
