The Child

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More Details
Status: Finished  |  Genre: Horror  |  House: Booksie Classic


Horror. Drugs.

Submitted: May 10, 2018

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Submitted: May 10, 2018

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The Child

 

Life is a lightbulb,

Turn it on

Turn it off,

It's got to blow sometime.

He's sulking,

Colours are converging

Like traffic lights

Onto his face and arse,

Flashing neon.

He's hanging from the ceiling bars,

He's still sulking in his cage.

He remembers his first memory,

Of his father showing him stars,

Pointing them out with a finger,

He'd mistaken them for streetlights

Down near the gully.

He'd thought they were streetlights

Suspended above dark organic outlines.

Up higher he knows now there are real stars,

Sick and dim,

And later when he's under the influence

Of chemical agents

The trees, the bushes,

The undergrowth of the gully

Metamorphose into monsters,

Heading up the gully,

Heading up towards the house.

The living room is a cesspool of iguanas,

And the queen of thorns

Materialises out of the late afternoon shadows,

Her fingers imprisoned by jewels

And dangerous lights,

Dividing and dividing into ever finer extensions

Pointing to his face,

A colourful face,

A face of terror

Behind bars,

A face with a screaming mouth,

Grabbed at the corners

By metal instruments

And hooks.

Life is a lightbulb

Controlled by chemical agents,

And autumn hormones.

Turn it off.

Turn it on.


© Copyright 2018 tom mcmullen. All rights reserved.

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