Cutting Room Floor - Poem by Diane Gage
In a long lost plot twist,
the Wizard of Oz gets pregnant
and gives birth to a lone bat
who learns the family trick
of shooting out large facsimiles
of himself to bully all comers,
or to dazzle, as the times require.
Same thing. Anything in this land
of animated horrors to keep
the cave damp, dark, and safe
enough for soft, pinched organs,
for tender, veined, pulsating ears.
Jump cut to the next frame
in a parallel movie, where
father and son are suddenly apples
of a waxy, rubbery red, with
the kind of shine that takes
the princess’s breath away.
When she bites down, mealy
brown rot sags in her mouth
unless in the opening scene
she had a friend to step
on that unassuming ominous frog,
crunching its portentous little bones.
Fade to Oz fumbling another exit, as
a cat named Moon hides under the bed,
and another rises on Batman’s shoulders,
displacing and erasing his mask with
smarmy, cheesy, disappearing grins.
But these stories are never over.
Like death, their moon keeps looming
and looming, larger than life
or the big screen’s promises and
threats, colder than witches’ tits,
miners’ asses, or history’s
sloped, retreating, accelerating back.
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