Some Heady Magic
Good morning, Monday, my Monday, my milky midwest Monday. Today you take my Monkey from me, today you take my world. My glowing gal, with purple breasts and bloated lips, with black base red hair, rage and set, all lichtenstein composure and devil may care.
“I think we’re all in shock.”
A storm of billions of ants tumbling through the air sweep through me and I cant see the sky, passed, gone, blasting, hail the mast on the horizon, splitting the sunset until both explode and sink.
Where are the bells, my sweet love? Where are the chamille walls and milking cows? Where have the dragons gone? How will I ever find Dumbledore’s office? Who has the password? Where the hell are we all going?
“One universe suffers yet another tragic blow today, as a small purple ape is taken from its natural habitat, or did it escape from the zoo? Either way, the poor beast has been dashed to the rocks in one place and atomized for oxygen in another and finally shot into the stars to God knows where.”
The stars, please stars, oh my whiley, hidey, smiley stars, you raised her fist and ripped forth a time warp, a question, a lie, you gave her thunder, thunder she now commands with the same fist you raised, the same fist that beats my chest and I, I gnash, and swear, I spit and cry, my mouth contorts and my face is being stretched across the bloodred bomb shell sky.
My mucus is heavy, like some doughy brick you stuffed up my nostrils. I keep trying to blow it out but its fused to my nasal caves, I dont think Ill be breathing through it for a while.
Wandering, a clot is spreading from my chest, congealing all of my organs in an oilspill jello mold, every grain of sappy sugar from every cupcake you’ve ever oggled suddenly fills my curling gray matter.
Dont tell me no one is dying, some one is dying, alright, some one is being tortured, bleeding to death, being boiled alive, lowered onto knee-high spikes, fed to lions after being drawn and quartered. The horses were just frightened thats all, and so was that bull and his cow, they loved the pastures like we couldnt imagine and they busted out of there like the glue factory was after them, laughing as they disappeared into a gopher hole.
gargling gasoline, that school has curled up like a gravesite and i feel like a little bug having its limbs torn out. even Peugot’s gone and my cerebelum is going to rupture.
We may not be dead, but in every place the ground wont ever feel our step or hear our cry, in those places we are dead.