Alice
I'm not all there myself,
losing my something, my everything -
vanished in a sea of tears, a pool of pig blood;
an impossible shower of playing cards
that came tumbling forth
from the rabbit hole prematurely,
unravelling like madness.
Lifeless stop motion figures
birth from me, these corpse creatures
a mimsy statistic, 1 in 4,
going out altogether like candles.
I paint the roses red with their blood,
saturating the white
with its congealed muck.
It takes all the running I can do
to keep from falling further,
descending into serpentine riddles
of self pity that eat away at every last smile.
A nonsensical horror,
a Svankmajer twist on the tale -
this wasn't how it was supposed to end.
The Monster Under The Bed
Behind closed doors,
the attack inevitable.
Velvet darkness consumes,
the heart a bass line.
His candy cane legs unfold,
the eyes that glow
blink open like a switch.
The spider hands ready themselves,
those Nosferatu claws,
reaching for an ankle to grab.
The fist pops out, a Jack in a Box,
a boxing glove on a spring,
a concussive lullaby -
knocked into next week's sleep.
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