Fingers are monsters, hands are storms, they clench
and shipwrecks bubble from knuckles and children are turned into orphans
and little birdies are tortured, wings go wrong, and sun goes moon
and dark slams into light and someone somewhere gives up the fight
too many pills, too many potions, too many thrills, but too much peace
and dance floors don’t dream, chaos uncrutches broken legs
and plucks dawn from peach pits, rise my sun from turntable glitz
too many spells, because our fingers are monsters
my own fingers running through the dollhouse
causing quakes that wake the tiny dancer
and I don’t know why I’m doing what I’m doing
but something good must come from this madness
it has to or I’ve lost my heart
whatever Wi-Fi connection I have to human kindness
look, there’s this New England tribe of hipsters
that eat seaweed and vomit in truck-stop bathrooms
the seaweed clumps together in plumbing pipes and become flesh
Olympic swimmers soaring through fast food guts and catwalk confetti
what we can do with the bones we’ve been given
and it has to be good
or we’re doomed
I need to figure out what the fuck I’m going to do
a shrunken dancer in a dollhouse bedroom
a dollhouse in a castle where there’s also a woman trapped in the basement
I can hear her pacing back and forth nervous about her replacement
she’s pulling out her hair and the dancer is naked like air
I must give her some clothes and the other a rose
one is big, the other small, I need some goddamn alcohol
buy me some time with a haunted cameo
pour myself a glass of expensive Bordeaux
drink, think and hopefully some answers
hopefully no death, oh life, no need for necromancers
we must all learn how to glow
and maybe a good wind will blow
maybe all this will be worth it
maybe I’m not an asshole
maybe I won’t die enflamed in spit
Photo Credit: Kevin N. Murphy Flickr via Compfight cc
