“We are more than the materials with which we have been built”
New video for an older poem of mine; probably wrote it something like ten years ago. It’s one of the few shorter, not-explicitly-spoken-word poems to appear in my book.
Here’s the transcript:
AN OPEN LETTER TO PINOCCHIO FROM DRACULA
Let me tell you about flesh. We danced in their living
rooms while they slept, squeezed through keyholes and
soundlessly caressed the insides of their loved ones. Glory:
pillowcases painted dawn, pulling real boys out from
under our fingernails. No, flesh is not your wish. More
likely normalcy, the electricity of a lover, the chill of
dusk, the ability to smell. Remember—the creatures
of the night belong to me, including the crickets. They talk.
Your wish: for flesh bubbling around your walnut heart,
for blood cascading through your wooden joints; more
likely the wish of a leaf to drop and join its brothers
on the forest floor, a tortured prisoner biting off his own
tongue to choke. Remember: the spirit inside you is not
yours. You only feed it. We are more than the materials
with which we have been built. Paint your skin, ratchet
the angle of your spine, but keep this magic burning—
too much leaked away already, like the skin peeling
off a snake, like an angel starving to death, like the last
music ever. Remember: abomination is just another word
for miracle. Half-extinct, we are still gods; let us pray.
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