I want to share with you all a poem I've written based on my love of the horror genre and an experience I had when my mom and I vited a coun of mine whom I had never met and who was on his death bed. This is a bit on the contemporary poetry de, so no rhyme or meter, at least as far as free verse is concerned. Bidites, enjoy.Upon Trying to Get Images of a Possessed Linda Blair Out of My Head
The Devil’s got my hands, at least, and the rest of me
goes to this guy I saw on his death bed,
apparently my coun, though I’d never heard of him
my whole life, and not that I really think
he is in me, but as I’m floating mid-air,
arms dangled to the de, I can’t help but wonder
if this is what dying is like: being trapped
sleeping in a body, not necessarily my own,
looking up occaonally at passersby, those who
want to see me before I take my last breath.
I’ll never be as sweet and innocent as Linda Blair
before the Devil got a hold of her.
My body had cuts and bruises way before Delano
ever took vacancy within the Holiday Inn that is my body.
And about my hands: I write on Sundays
just to be sure, but I think Beelzebub’s still in them,
but he’s the politician Milton had belching lies
into the “soft delicious Air,” and calling all
shitheads in Hell “Ethereal Virtues.”
I’m not necessarily frightened anymore by The Exorcist.
If anything, I’m more afraid of the guilt this
little twelve-year-old daughter of a movie star has,
after having twisted the director’s head completely around,
and thrown his body out of her two story window.
“You’re going to die up there,” she said.
Too bad he didn’t get the memo.