Changeling (Cryptozoology)
She calls them changelings because they are they are three little kids
They are tied and drowned and the damage unto was thought satan actually turtles
Turtles as in the prehistoric cryptids which retreat as we walk along the lake
Pastoral if it weren’t for my friend’s mom’s car circling
Or maybe the changelings are the older boys
The space occupied by satan where a brutality occurs
Or the space made empty
Heard tell the new necropastoral is here now
Does that mean the old eroticism is not profane
Even a liar can be scared into telling the truth
Or the truths as far as the movies
In exchange for three boys they offered three boys
Or maybe it was us who offered
Knows remembers believes a corridor in a big long garbled cold echoing building of dark red brick sootbleakened by more chimneys than its own
Ah I miss the simple life the sweet little mudpit and the flowers the flowers
Life Event
Do I want to be alive it begins with a question. Scarfing elicits a trapdoor. Empathy for your consideration it begins with a household, six children, 1950s, a woman named B. To awaken a life first I must flatten it, a woman, a porchdeck, an above-ground pool, and the little ghostly St. Francis in the yard, visible over three black trash bags of leaves (poplar; oval, and wet). You died in the same place you were born. No. Some other place a house looted after the hurricane they burned it to the ground. When we say they we know what we say we are a Louisiana wilderness copped, despised like propaganda. That was the beginning of your life your mother’s life a woman called B. The two of you lived together at the brink. Were you a woman these are the questions was your mysticism indecent or not. A death, one, could be so precise, so fugitive as to have no meaning at all. This is the hope that one devastation can matter only to me.
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Featured image from the Smithsonian.
