I’ve got Holofernes hiding under my bed
He’s terrified, and I am exhausted. My phone
has rung off its hook and my sword feels too heavy.
Holofernes’ broken bottle eyes glare at the knife edge of his future.
He’s caught in Thanatos’ tractor beam, wounded by my Eros.
There’s plenty of time yet for me to play whack-a-dick’s-neck.
No hurry. The clock in my crocodile can’t tell time.
Been transported to an unpainted Rousseau dreamscape.
Kukulcan is yawning, his Mayan palms are shedding
fronds, I’ve no shade to hide in
and I think I’ve been bitten by a tsetse fly – the one
that you were inoculated with as a child
Whose sting keeps you living in my dreams.
You, in your mommy’s arms, sucking on a grape lollipop
after the shot, bravely trying not to cry. Me? I cry unwillingly,
but that’s because I cracked the sole of my concrete shoes
and now I have nothing to hold me down on the ground,
nothing to anchor my bit of earth to. I’m floating on clouds
And they’re dank and dark, full of snark about humanity
And our misguided themes. They think we are nothing more
Than poorly generated memes.
Can’t say they’re wrong.
We’re the original replicants,
Nevermind Roy Batty and his Nexus-6 shit.
Still, Reality with it’s capital Captain Jack “ARRRRhh!”
Is many-footed so if I’m lucky I can astral project
This hologram I am over to you.
Vaunt myself over your Mount Erebus
Steel your lightning lance.
Pour my milk over your tantric sorcerer
Pit and pendulum your San Sebastian.
Feed your vegan soul bacon
Paganini the beast in your breast
Slip a diamond dog collar around your neck
Change your name to Rex because you’re a king
You’ll be my dog-king-slave-pet… Anti-Christ Palomino tölt horse bet.
I’ll drag you through every lavender shrub on Crissy Field’s Dunes
Feed you wild bushberries and make you croon your Orpheus tunes
Until you lasso the sun you promised me and feed me the moon,
I am the dish, you’ll be the spoon.
Better yet, maybe Geppetto will carve me a new pair of wooden shoes
True, they’re not as solid as concrete, but they’ll double as canoes
and let me float in your flood’s water.
Lately, I find myself drowning in the shallowest tidal pools
In eddy currents of doubts and shadows’ shadows.
But I doubt my doubts about my doubts and shadow my shadow’s shadow, too.
None of this is really about you. You are an absolute.
More absolut than vodka or minus 273.15°C will ever be.
Your ultra-cool atoms defy gravity, too. Great Red Spot of Jupiter.
Attila of my heart. Hagar the Wonderful. So Eyjafjallajökull icy hot…
which is why my Judith lies dazily in bed dreaming of ways to turn
into a Wagnerian valkyrie commanding the ravens in my tears to fly out
to protect you for me. Oh my wandering hero, of the briny blue, but who
or what will ever protect me from the Mos Eisley Cantina menagerie of you?