It was Jung’s Red Book. The boy is irrelevant. Published in Atomic Fly-Swatter Vol. 1
You thunder, silver-tongued
about your alien planet
like a junkyard guard dog,

dislodge thick snarls from your throat,
taste the rusted air for fear.

I do not know the climate here.
I do not care to-
 
this wasteland is too crowded as it is,
there is no place for me to rest 
among all these damn mirrors that reek of
restlessness and
wine. 

If only I could close my eyes
and let the ancient howl of your spirit’s storm
engulf me,

make me have to remember
to breathe.

But I do not know the climate here.
I do not care to.