Collaborative poems written by Barbara Leonhard, Alex S. Johnson, and me!
Massacre of the Dreamers
Pixelated schemes ride silver horses to the end of the nightmare course
Where scandalous ladies toting pink umbrella guns march to a different drum machine
Scream queens generate penumbras of feminine terror to scrape the algorithms to dust
Holy trust gets an upgrade with cellular-spiking precision
KNo getting around it, the course is now off-course
Life is a horror with billboards of scream queens
and news shows that show us the spatter of blood
No way to escape it, on TVs and cell phones
We’re bludgeoned with bad news
No wonder we’re crazy, and hate
is the air that we breathe
The scream queens shield behind facial implants,
hiding their histories. They douse their cells with bleach
and excavate ancient DNA to root out rot. They carry banners
upside down and blame the sun for their Crepey skin.
They serve the Kool-Aid Man, who flaps his penguin arms
as though parting the Red Sea and purses his lips as though
kissing his sweet Devil.
Rotting from inside, their moribund forms glide from beauty
parlor to funeral home, in ghoulish procession, their ruthless
domination of the afterworld coiled like a King Cobra
Its hood unfurled over the denizens of the Netherworld, their treks
across the Waste Land leaving track marks
on the arms that, rather than shelter us, choke us
This nightmare will end only after scream
queens escort me to dementia and death,
mouthing platitudes that stop for dessert
at my funeral lunch
Grabbing a pail beyond the pale
I avail myself of the beauty of horror
Scored with holes by the needlework of the sewing queen
Whose dark dreams are stitched into my deadened heart
Forever to accompany its sullen murmurings
Spooky Action at a Distance
Consider spooky action at a distance
a little quick wrist action, slingshot across the
fifth dimension
warp-scorch and bork woof woof
the hounds of Hades are raising the roof
They hound me through fire, desire
for vengeance, to rip me to shreds
then revive me, to make me
their toy once again.
They toss me into molten crevasses
and black holes in our universe’s evil twin,
where mighty angels battle heinous hybrids
holding me down, an easy meal, filet of soul.
The meat at the beating core of creation
Heaves and sinks in the shifting whirlpools
Swimming in the eyes of the stellar giants
Whose mighty hands of cards augur our futures
What is my fate in this massive stellar swirl
in dark matter drawing constellations closer
and then apart as though God is breathing
while considering the next shuffle
published in Substack:
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