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Murdering Pluto

"Murdering Pluto" On Pluto, they deal with trauma in the best possible way, they murder it slowly in poetic hell day after day. the dark Seraphim have their way. their ways are stellar. some say they hover in the stratosphere, but that's much too clear. They're in the parallel dimension, that forgotten, unnumbered place. Not the 17th, or 38th parallel - that's for another wall, to tell. Later, maybe. To Overture, William Tell. I know, it’s all far reaching, but then that’s their crazy. they tell you to man up suck it all in, and take your medicine; you're asked to show your tongue, the cave inside your mouth, after it's eventually done. but by then, you've spat out all the pills like ridiculous words, you're now without voice - and like the red shoes, another poetic wall is written on again, glitching, again and again. See, what I mean, it's like cursed dancing. On Pluto, it's Hell. the child having all her teeth removed had no time to dwell on the machinations of an alienated world. Next of kin was a word, totally forbidden. thinking back on it now when the Sun became totally black and the days became completely soaked in darkness, in those days of swaggered imprisonment, not to mention the theatrics, the criminal, in another soft cell, the one who sold freedom who hoovered it all away, made the pain worse than hell, so through cloaked tunnels of spider web and decay, escape was inevitable ; her mother was fighting the real demons to make the world a better place for her prodigious progeny, for a new story, a new home, if you will, to bloom in rooms full of milk and honey; the unicorns and blue faery’s were poor competition for the Draco and the Arachnid, who transfigured into normality without the slightest hint of psychological or physical disfigurement, they were good, like that. Acting, was in their genetic family. no one knew the better, when the real war came. In that In-Between Place, they deal with trauma in the worst possible way, they send it off with confetti to the Labyrinthine Caves a world far removed from glistening Xanadu and vaped Coleridge, shining it all around, talking up his schmooze - like this: "....and from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail..." you get it? shining it all around. that's poets for you. the reader wanders in occasionally, following the odd writing on walls, strange puzzling metaphors, looking for the answers and the meaning - if at all, the place of central seating. Some considered it non-existent, invisible. before they know it, they’re lost in space danger Will Robinson and the watcher isn’t you she’s on the outside and the reader’s looking in like an alien, wandering lost, considering, if at all, with great consternation where to begin. Let’s commence with Murdering Pluto. (LadyLabyrinth / 2022) "You alone were born to judge deeds obscure and conspicuous. Holiest and illustrious ruler of all, frenzied god, You delight in the worshiper's respect and reverence. Come with favour and joy to the initiates. I summon you."

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