5 Nov 2009, 11:30am
Writing
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Bedlam / Apocalypse

Run away Aeneas, carry your father
Anchises with you to outer-space,
the North Pole, and Santa Claus.
(Santa Claus, who falls splat into the
charred remains of your house.)
You are no P.T. Barnum. You watch
the paratroopers jump into a new fire
and you call it Cirque du Soleil,
you call it old-fashioned. But now your
New Normandy is being invaded.
The neighbors are coming; they’ll be
charming tonight. Cook you in the yard
while the troll sits guarding the vegetables.
Thinking it’s so awesome. They’ll be
lacrosse-stick makers, banging the wet
sticks over the forming-forms (into the
rabbit-holes). They’ll push you back in
sideways.

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