Fallen Cinders ~~ A Halloween Poem


FOR HALLOWEEN

Fallen Cinders

Don’t know if there were other beings. So far no one I’ve queried has dyed-in-the-wool knowledge of their existence.

The Doors – People Are Strange

Measuring about 4’8” they had gray-green eyes and a snarled mess of teal blue hair that fell from their heads to their ankles.  A race of Cousin Its who had escaped from the Addams Family and mated with Smurfette.  Every so often there would be a great divide within these walking haystacks when tentacles would emerge, grasp the being nearest to them all the while emitting spores that enabled them to engage in a type of conjugal bliss harmonizing their universe and populating future cosmos.  Egg donors pushed out womb offerings for the spores’ consummation.

You must allow the bed to take you. It’s the only way. Pollination. Germination. Fruit.  Appendages.

Steles push up granite flowers. Stone Flowers. Stillborn. Alien stillborns cry out for vindication.

He’s just a middle-aged painted Lolita straining to call forth the waiting semen amidst a garden of extraterrestrial after-births.

The Beatles – The Fool On The Hill

Sulky gargoyles indulged in the meadow.

State bed

State bed

Date: ca. 1698

Culture: British

Medium: Wood, covered in blue silk damask

Dimensions: 12 ft. × 6 ft. 6 in. × 6 ft. (365.8 × 198.1 × 152.4 cm)

Sometimes I would watch as they chased and caught smaller humanoid beings decapitating them with a lassoed tentacle tug then planting their tiny heads as seeds with the promise of a shrunken head springtime crop during the moon’s 6th ellipses. Tasty. Delicious. Like brussel sprouts sauteed in olive oil.

Gathering at the ceremonial castle they marched in sync howling chanting:

Babbling Bitches have me in stitches.

The Babble of the rabble gives rise to bewitches.

On and on a series of feet stampeding through Wonderland. Wheelers keeping an uneven but steady tempo.

Aristocratic corpses shimmer in glee.

A dead Mariachi Band Member dances for filthy lucre.

The Cyclist body lay crumpled between sighing posts. Mangled beyond recognition. His bike wheels spinning waiting for its riders return. He was the color of repose.

Ahhh…. Look at All the Lonely People. Where do they come from? Where do they all belong?

Beatles- Eleanor Rigby

Somebody needs to check to see if Elvis is in the alligator. For there is an umbrella that will take you to the 13th floor.

We come from a long line of Firestarters, feeling nostalgic for another self but knowing that those above gather the fallen cinders.

The Old Castle

The Old Castle

Artist: Emanuel Murant (Dutch, Amsterdam 1622–1700 Leeuwarden)

Medium: Oil on wood

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