“Sitting in the studio when they called to let me know my song had made
No. 1 in the USA.” -Max Martin
Everyone wrote “Footsteps,” or so they
Claim, is the thing, except that actually
It came to me one night in a dream,
I mean, in a chatroom in my dream.
Crazy, right? Another user had just
DMed me some very unsettling images,
and He followed
Up with the poem. I know I won’t get any credit,
This being Scandinavia and all, with its stringent
Regulations about who gets to write
Pop songs, but still, Lars and Sven
Do owe me a debt of gratitude for the time I gave them
Aubrey Graham’s email, which they claimed
“to have lost?”
They asked me, the only living yid in Stockholm,
Knowing I had the login info to the Database.
Every time I looked down into the sand, in the
Weeks after letting the infamous father-son duo
into Drake’s inbox like that,
I saw just one set of footsteps, which told me
I was being carried by the Lord, even though
I was suffering, you know?
There was this dog on a train through the Czech Republic,
his head the size of a watermelon. He was loosed, and spit
flapped from his jowls. In the panic, the man checking tickets
forgot to ask if I was a Jew. I reached for the dog, all went quiet.
Citizens of Europe, bear witness, I felt the clamminess of his mouth
as he bit off half my pointer finger, like we agreed beforehand,
and leapt through a window, carrying part of me further south.
They got him on the coast, tranquilizers. He slumped into sand,
then they used a machine gun. They returned my finger’s part,
along with his head in a plastic bag, warned me via chat to forget
the whole story. There was something to that, for when I started
to write this, I felt the scabbed-over flesh on my finger grow wet
and taut. They burst through, tiny whelps, tongues dripping drool.
Safe at last, I fell into grass, blood and spit on its tips like jewels.