THE FAIRY POEM
Every time someone says they don't believe in fairies, an army of karmic fairies is dispersed, and heads immediately for this someone’s heart to supplement its bile with misfortune and rue. Every time a bell rings, an angel gets its fangs. Every angel’s fucking terrifying. Every angel’s a zombie and would eat your brains out, then you become one and try to eat someone else’s brains out. That’s how angels work. I don’t know what heaven is. My grandmother once described it as all the faces floating around you ever knew. Fairies fuck flowers to make more fairies. A lot of fucking goes on in the spirit world. Bromeliad has a sore asshole almost daily. Oh yeah, I forgot, only anal. One guy fucked his girlfriend for four years only in the ass. Another had a girlfriend with stretched ear flesh he tried to fuck. If it’s part of the human body, somebody’s tried to fuck it. Wisteria inseminated makes anthrax look like child’s play. Astromeria engendered is a vicious affair. I used to give my girlfriend flowers, then she ripped my heart out. Fucking figures. I get off on strange shit, dark gems in a twilight riding, mossy caverns with garden visions huddled inside my head, constellations rolling in the briar, and setting shit on fire.
Hard to believe a week ago we were still in Disney. “Thursday night, after yoga (‘raise the inner lining of your anus and take it into your chest’ or something like that) …” and was turned on—does that make me weird? And is it “Make-out Music”? Trees at the end of autumn are sinewy as fuck. Ninety percent of Rilke translations are bullshit, and yet the flowers go on fucking as if the bells had stopped ringing, or was it the other way around, and I’m the butterfly? The whole shit’s fucked. Uma Thurman’s sub-human.
The one stone in your oven moves.