Goddamn These Minotaurs

Persephone Erin Hudson

In the ecology of the Dream
a forest has grown over the ruins of a drive-in
where raccoons trash an abandoned cop car
with a carton of eggs and rolls of toilet paper.
Here the pigs have scattered
under the summoned scrutiny of black-magic panthers,
replaced by the privatized smiley-faced fascist Feel Goods,
said to be untouchable by the touch of sigils on skin.

Goddamn these Minotaurs that snort and haunt
the crooked Caligari Cabinet cityscape
painted in blood on the backs of black bodies linked arm
in arm, seemingly seamless by the Great Hole of History
the Man In The Newspaper Suit crawls through to find
the heart of the labyrinth of what was denied to him.

In the graveyard the Bird unearths stories
as the ghost without a history watches,
silently searching for the words to say hello.
By day in the alleyway behind the minimart
between cigarettes The Bandaged Kid befriends a cat
crying unheard claims of the End of Days,
and by night a lonely lesbian drinks to drown
from a pink-grenade flask adorned with a five-letter spell,
wondering if she’s more than they bargained for yet
as girls tenderly touch in the graveyard where a Saint
was fucked in the circular arms of the Ophanim angel.

If you look closely you can see
fungal ideas forming and fermenting on aerial atoms,
the building blocks of a subconscious cityscape
like mushrooms growing on the skin of a dead deer
lying on the side of the highway
with a ‘get well soon’ balloon tied to its antler.

One day the Great Dark One will eclipse the sun
but until Its beak closes the curtain
goddamn, goddamn these Minotaurs.