My Mother is a video nasty,
a lurid analog nightmare
transcribed with bloody fingers
onto VHS, shoved in a thin
cardboard box with age lines like soggy skin,
then sealed in urban legends:
tight, taught cellophane.
They speak of it in whispers on
How the tracking is off on every copy,
EVERY copy. There is a gnarly buzz
scratching through the opening credits.
The last 15 minutes are legendary.
She removes her face with her finger nails,
pulls it off like a thin rubbery plastic.
A secret face, white
microwaves of intense mockery,
focused as a lighthouse beam.
Papi dies the hard way, the Clive Barker way.
Hangers like hooks, fish hooks,
tear him asunder.
He is hunks of raw, red steak.
Ribs flower from
torso as marrow oozes like a thick pollen.
This is an important shot, the commenters say,
the reconfiguring of his sex. KubrickFurry asserts
Ann’s monstrous feminine is conservative. RandallFlag
retorts there is a lacanian message obscured by this corpse
flower: the trauma of child abuse embodied by the real.
I am dodging face suns, hauling ass through the
barbed chain bramble that was my home.
Avatars debate over impossible architecture: men and women
sparring with verbal chainsaws as I run through
a five and a half minute hallway, chased by a faceless medusa
in a dream of jagged ambien singed into the glass eye of a
No one understands the ending.
They say I have to live,
fight my sister in the sequel.
They say the irrational is the milieu of cult films.
I say burn every copy of this ring virus.
Never let your mother watch it.