by Matthew Harrison
Its image could be anything.
You get the picture. It burns
with atmosphere. It lives, consumes
consumers like cinema, a radiant
blood bag for donors big, then bigger
to a mass crave. You stomach it.
To end it you think incineration,
but only a slow freeze will do.
You know, says a cool boy
to constellations. He looks away
from the girl behind the house
in Hollywood. You know,
plenty of people with their right minds
thought they saw things that didn’t exist.
He thinks of what could be, innocent
as crickets in the backyard. The parents
stay asleep. The girl is just there. The star system
implies her. You know, like flying saucers,
the light just right in the angle of imagination.
He turns and takes her in, alert
with common craving, a blob
soon to be. His monstrous heart beats
in a drive-in B movie. Give in to it,
and you grow with horrifying romance.
And if that is what it is, then
this is just an ordinary night.