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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