TRAP SYNDROME

visitation from the sun’s servitor

approaches through walls and cisterns

implants the compulsion to commit crimes

extend the summer

and do so much together

but turn on one another

at the first sign of bad weather

downwind, the bag lady waits

to assign it all with the leaves

hello, I’m a sort-of granny

limbs falling off

bleeding everywhere

yet carrying an air of decency

I pass through centralised portals

to expose the underlying dysfunctionality of a system

the leftovers

will first need hot water

put them in the most venerable of bags

conjure a rag from thin air

operators are on standby

to walk you through the malformed exhaust ports

find the men hiding there

so we pass through the prism

pay premium for an illusion,

a romance in quicksand,

the caress from a wraith’s hand

and she opens the door

for every foul creature

roaming the land