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| (c) Lora Mitchell |
The Terrorium
(transcription of a dream)
(transcription of a dream)
Behind dirty glass
the leaves are speckled
the leaves are speckled
as an old man's hand,
yellowing veins, ropy stems.
A broken-backed rock
nailed in pain
at the shadows' end
is a cankered sling
for what crawls out at last
for what crawls out at last
to preen and bask
with its blood-streaked eyes,
with its blood-streaked eyes,
its drop-jaw mouth
engineered to split too wide
engineered to split too wide
as it waits for its keeper
to bring the flies,
or sits fat and laps
at brain-colored worms
with a tongue
that's slit but still
holds fast.
And it asks
And it asks
forever
no more than this:
to sit and swell,
to sit and swell,
to eat its fill
of all that crawls or
swims through filth
of all that crawls or
swims through filth
but
the box of glass
the box of glass
has grown too small,
the keeper's gone,
the keeper's gone,
the thing's too huge,
the reptant tongue
too bent and long.
It lifts its head.
too bent and long.
It lifts its head.
It jumps and falls
in a slime of jerks as
in a slime of jerks as
it scrabble-climbs
with its plague-toed feet
and bellied brine
and bellied brine
up and back,
sideways and over,
sideways and over,
quick and fell and hungry,
hungrier than ever.
~October 2015
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| Untitled, Zdislav Beksinksi |
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