He a raggedy, cornered, orphaned doll of deep and hollow eye sockets.
She a giant vagina with jiggly testicles mounted on muscular legs
fast on calloused feet,
mocks him and his sentiments.
the doll floats in nothingness; he can’t see, can’t hear, can’t feel
even if the body does.
The giant is sensuous and stomps the motionless body.
Bars in the window
I am crazy
The shape-shifter surrounds and suffocates
He once tried – nails dug into vertically infinite concrete.
Scab and blood the only proofs.
He’s awake. He’s terrified.
She is massive and the foot threatens
Tear down the wall
A cascade of ugly shit from her mouth.
He sees choking hands and bitten nipples
Ripping open a blouse, exposed breasts in shame.
Faceless body unquestioning into the abyss.
The crowd cheers as the skies fall on the heads of
Queers, jews, junkies, students
Beaten and stripped.
When eyes were still in the sockets
A blade sharply removed eyebrows
The scars didn’t matter for a rock star
He still got pussy. Even more, for being eccentric.
By now the scars were gone and with them
any vestige of humanity
They found him nearly lifeless
Where’s the commander now?
Where are the uniform and the megaphone
and the followers and destroyers?
A shot of adrenaline.
A forced re-entry.
Humiliated and sub-human
She built the wall
And she blew it up.
With it went his mind.
Little children solemnly sort pieces from debris.
Pink Floyd: The Wall (film) was so fucking fantastic I had to try to capture the imagery. I apologize for compressing and diluting the work with my self-indulgent little challenge. I couldn’t not.