“Seasons of Dread”
Express the phantom.
Knead yourself. Right there.
Do memories of rivers open now?
Or are we still discussing the usual waterfall?
Crème brûlée, as long as the spigots are open.
Creme blue,
the gases released.
There must be another doorway.
Sit still in a dark room.
Stare at a blank wall.
In time, the colors change.
Relax to tangle your thoughts.
Enter another doorway.
Another doorway grows still.
Mold grows on the trim of another.
Are we still discussing this?
Please finish.
Lock the deadbolt.
Pull down the chains.
Let the chairs drop.
Massage the chopping block.
It’s time to give the seasons
to the hungry scarecrow.
He’s starved souls.
He lights the tails of devils
to smoke firecrackers
while dancing on the roof
until morning.
Express the problem,
but it doesn’t make you feel better.
It only lasts as long as a cigarette.
Find me in the hallway.
This museum is too beautiful
in the dollhouse.
I’m in love with the drapes,
tablecloths,
everything surrounding me
in your absence.
Abscesses throb on the walls.
Did you expect to release
the phosphorescent streets?
They release you into a rubber room
to tell you that you haven’t been listening,
you can’t survive,
there’s no choice but to relax
the gun muscle
and muzzles know barbwire flowers
because bliss is an acid train
because the beating wings tunneling
of a moth in distress
we’ll die covered in dust
but glue could put us back together.
We need repairs
worse than your favorite toy.
We need to outlast the batteries.
Our town has grown too artificially hot.
The masks no longer fit
to disguise us.
The attraction to the rubber animals
has worn off.
Tails of eels spell your name
in endless circles
spiraling back
a beckoning frost touch.
Tags: Nicholaus Patnaude, poem, Seasons of Dread
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