Peter Panic
The Downward Spiral
His world was an illusion of boxes.
He wondered how they could make it real.
He couldn’t wake up from his dream.
How could he make it real?
They hide their memories in boxes.
Top enclosures. Coffins for parents.
And he washes Her to dust
The way a hand slides through pages
And we become what we used to be
They learn to fear the reaper
Remembering a visit from Peter Pan
Yet matter plays its rapture in wormy dirt
It’s midday. The heavens have collapsed.
This enclosure no longer satisfies. She feeds
Her regrets to Her boy and what She would do differently
Given another chance.
Who will come to Her window now?
A goat man with the head of a snake
extends his hand and convinces Her
That She can fly
but when She tries
the cold call of gravity
lures Her down
into that place
inhabited by the broken shards
of starry heaven
Possession
There was no man behind that mask.
They said his eyes felt like a reptile’s.
His drooling rictus always seemed to need
It always seemed like he was kneeling
Haunted over, especially after Her death.
Only pretty sure that he bring Her back again.
Repulsion begets compulsion. We were strangers
To that inner world. And we anthropomorphized you.
There’s a freakish simplicity to faking a smile
And we’ll smile too, just to make you stop looking
It is an architecture of plastic. A domain for shapes.
i can be anyone you please.
i am the new face
But I’ll always be Her boy
when you look in the mirror,
it is my eyes that stare back
i've been given so many names
that i've forgotten what i call myself
do not believe that you are ever alone
in shadows, in darkness, in the deepest pit
there are voices, like echoes
in search of mouths
to make their own.
The Necromancer
that boy would look at us
see nothing but phantoms
blips in the radar
of his imagination
haunting about him
immaterial, impossible
to touch.
when he began to fear us
we began to fear him.
we sensed his eyes
did not see us as human.
deeply paperlike kisses
blowing ashes in the wind
and then he would whisper
his torrential teleology
to the tinman, an alchemist
a shell of a man
a moribund effigy
awaiting translation
in the moisture
of his undead mother
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