It is a matter of what to be used for.
What will one be used for
Chris as terrible spirit affecting all
Kayleigh, her mother, her aunt, grandmother, g’mother
Kayleigh.
Chris.
Ma.
Pete.
Mark.
Brett.
Kathi.
One-Ear Jonny.
Alice in Wonderland fake movies Depp
Chris as the evil AIDS-shot-bro in the black cap the Depp – lashing lovely loving
I wanted to be Depp, art, love, but i failed
there was the 7/18 role
where father could return the week
for with oil,
but would, did
we want him
for only and for hero long
for why and for how long
the kiss that Chris forced
all upon us very really
all but those with manners
was it communicable?
could we all die?
Depp and the girls flew the night
in impact turn
in muppet them
Across the skies he sees the
city-back, the
Kayleigh, the
way-back, the
machine-gunning of theatre-goers
returned the magic-8 ball
musical chairs
who gets
one
who gets
none
?
theatre-goers all
shakespeare’s sword
drag the Conestoga
down the London Brooklyn Charles Town Main
street
Depp lets Chris destroy every storefront all the streets down of town
“LET IT RIDE, LET IT RIDE, MY FRIENDS”
then like
Gene Hackman, no,
Marty Feldman, her
real | dead |
Gepetto husband,
the kindly puppetmaster of all
this,
he reaches down
smiling like the real-happy Cheshire Cat
touches wand to filament , to
friendly spiders’ web
2 strands
all turn magic
family, there
boy, whole
he is a joyous good caring
Pinocchio on-stage
and the lights came up and
we all sighed relief.
Gepetto’s dream come
true
despite its-once-theft
its former once twist by the man who
would become
Chris,
kiss of death
tongue of breen
man of krill
he who be
killer
not just “the killer”
rather
the decider
the controller
the grantor
the deny-or
the withhold
the grow
the die
the curl
the cramp,
kneel to me
breathe for me
sing for me
no, don’t
the cook, clean, cut die crisp
watch me:
take. steal. kill. beg
his real father loved him like Gene Wilder, smiled
benevolent, said
my wife,
this is what i intended
created recipe’d hoped designed for you
for me
for some time it came to
worse than nought but
you you can see my
aim was true, my intent it were noble
for i love you my dear
loved
will love adore for ever
hope;
want to give;
even here
in my death
turn the wide space open arid
empty of my long-since death
i, dead, still at the pray
for you and me long dead,
long longing for you
and for the power,
of death
of grant the power of death
to put upon our ragged son the death
his curse
earned
promised
delivered
begged
demanded
delayed
i, still @ pray for you
my dear,
behold our true son
the one for the getting of which i had to die, we
had to make the trade
if asked, “would you?”
would you have?
if asked,
if come to
choice. decision. desire. salvation
no, of course, no
therefore cam the push to shove
the matter forced
[ like
the
later
kiss
fr the
poison-son
]
but, i digress
and, here, here
arriving what has been this mess
is the stage upon which we would dance
but now, having looked @ the cost,
and me, I tried to
create
not to
accept, to
control
not to
say “drive on”
not to
just simply say
“ok”’
and have it be us, 2, two, and
whoever, whatever came
along
not the $89k wedding, not the
custom pantaloons or
the MG 2-stroke bike
down the stairs you
on back me on front,
not the Peter Pan flies
across the night
ax the night
me, Pete, Ma, Chris all in the
same car, Chris all in black
mumbly-talking speaking reaping
the arrival @ Kayleigh’s sister’s mother’s house, w
the snow, ice froze pond
paddle front lawn,
the we sat in the car
w death-exhaling Chris
while the party inside
the darkened séance
living room of model trains and candles
silent model trains
rolling on air sucked from our lungs after Chris kiss.
Kayleigh’s sisters’s mother,
spirit somewhere there
, air?
, spare?
, dare?
, fair?
, fine fine hair?
, lair?
, rare?
, stare?
, tare?
“you the tare that is
my daughter, you
imposèd tax”
Pete to Chris,
“you the tare, the tax
you, my son, the excise
the duty the none of us could bear”
nor you
nor jolly olde England
that retreated to itself, head
into shell, like the World
the War
the One
that made us all to eat
mud through our feet
—
and this grand this night gala,
the féte
that became the long
weight, the standingby for
yr death,
only for one other,
for yr sister to step
in and assume your fate
to breathe yr lousy air
to breathe yr london air
to breathe yr poisoned seaside
full of dead, failing
propellor war-planes
tearing themselves,
their pistons to bits
museo by museo, and
she breathed in yr
exhaust, yr low-
octane, shit-stained
fuel and you the leper-chaun
dance fr yr council housing room
filled
w
the corpses of yr league
squad battalion of dead cats
all killed gently relentlessly
w the wheezing of yr
gladiolus of yr
wheezing music box
your, you, organ-grinder
organgrinder son
jack-in-the-box
surprise
“say Hi!”
wring the neck,
garrote-in-a-box
and fold back onto yr
box, spring coiled under
and into yr ass
you ass
die jack!
die in yr box!
die in the box of yr
measure twice cut once
yr knit-one, pearl-two
yr count-cadence
delay-cadence
count-cadence
one!
yr quick,
cut,
common
time
yr one-2-3
1-2-3
matilda of a waltz
it could have been you
showed your sister what a man can do
she and her dog-kayak & canoe
and her daddy smoked them cigars
and Chris’ poison-batman in the
house w the head-high (bottom-of)
windows,
the windows through which only Chris could see
he swears a melody, “it’s there.”
“yr just too stupid”
you and your fake chinese food.
you and your fake birthday chinese food by the fake seaside
by a fake seaside on
fake plates with fake huzzahs
fake hurrahs and the
stillborn well-wishes of us in attendance,
for the birthday smelled more like a gravesite
a funeral
a cremation
a condemning
a condemnation
than the birthday party for dolphins
—xxx—
his birth it were a pall
he came and kissed us children each by all
with a knock of our head against the wall
under his scabrous
moth-eaten
leper’s-shawl
the one with the cats them
hanging one by one one
each on his single claw
were not a shine but a pall
of broken blitzkrieg wings and trench warfare
dressed in drag
his weren’t a birth
it was a brawl
not so much a birth as a brawl
[
birth? brawl?
film @ eleven
your call
]
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