Is what I’m called when with a heavy heart
I carry a bevy of eyes that are alive when
they arrive in the city on a spiraling wind.
I find the city blind until my grotesque form
absorbs strangeness that oddly becomes
when the eyes arriving in the middle of the
night without sight miraculously see what’s
inside of me through eyes that come alive.
I see what they desire and if they had
vision like me, they’d be depraved in a
I do my job and wave at the sky before
I give them a shot of novocaine and rip
out their eyeballs in a painless way.
I suck out their spirits that are liquid and spit
them into an icy spiraling wind that puts me in awe
as it takes them to a place called Bizarrerie.
Spirits not ashamed to scream upon opening their
eyes that I gave them as a gift, so as not to deprive
them of seeing in the name of love, what was to come.
They had to sweat and their mouths bloomed as though cut.
It would be fun when who I really am became clear to those
who now had eyes and could count the years they’d been alive.
Not one found dinnertime the instant to be blind or else in their
imaginative minds they’d get behind and have to adjust the wind
with a magician’s wand to leave their spirits in the dust.
They could leave in disgust once they heard the bizarre beat,
like a rock guitar in the dungeons that used to be their minds.
Out of breath I take out their eyes that are full of lies