| Who’s there?
|
| Who’s there?
|
| And I remember
|
| Flashes of laughter
|
| And lunatics
|
| Lost in the asylum
|
| Seductive propaganda
|
| Scrolling across my mind
|
| Like guerilla cinema.
|
| Belts and wooden spoons
|
| Flies in the afterbirth
|
| Like shadows across my brain
|
| And crawling on linoleum kitchens
|
| Streaming death and corporate concienceness into my brain
|
| And cracked porclein sinks stuffed with
|
| Dirty dishes.
|
| The early morning anxiety of gradeschool
|
| Dark stockings to hide the bruises.
|
| Secret friends and festive holidays
|
| And everyone in their sunday best
|
| Pretending to like each other.
|
| For generations and generations of
|
| Sad mistakes.
|
| Stealing away in the dead of night to
|
| Escape the stiff jawed henchmen in the hungry trucks
|
| Of an angry slumlord miles and miles away.
|
| Impatient and understanding
|
| Waking on the side of the road
|
| Hissing radiator hoses cracked like
|
| Burned skin.
|
| Days so hot a nuclear holocaust would’ve felt like siberian blizzard.
|
| And I remember
|
| The first time I felt it alive inside me
|
| Turning the deadweight
|
| Moving within the folds of its winged embrace
|
| Opening and sliding those black feathers
|
| Inches at a time.
|
| Those feet
|
| Pushing and digging into the membrane
|
| Deep enough to cause pregnancy
|
| And I remember it going numb
|
| And listening to it hum
|
| And I feel it move in its mysteries
|
| Exploring me
|
| And I remember this
|
| And I know
|
| I never had a chance.
|
| There’s never any escaping it. |