Village of the Damned


I remember going to see the Village of the Damned

with my buddies eating popcorn, picking noses, launching spitballs

wads of wet toilet paper sliding down the silver screen

confused ushers with mops scurrying around like displaced cockroaches.

Possessed British children used to scare the hell out of me

kids with strobe-light-blinking eyes, possessed and abominable

ice-cold water in their veins, demonic and entitled kids

rising from the proverbial grave of affluence and spoiling mommies.

Fair-skinned and blond white children who put adults to sleep

little smart-assed monsters, evil plotting, impregnating, strolling zombies

cool and calculated, unlovable and  sociopathic, hell-bent yuppie killers

With one subtle glance you’ll fall down in convulsion, putty in their hands.

I once wished I had the power to make grown-ups weak and small

teachers, neighbors, bullies, two-faced adults with sardonic grins

I once wished that they would never hurt me again or bury my joy

Coating tongue  with sugary Pixie Sticks, sucking feverishly on a Black Cow.

And why did they wear blond wigs? 

And why did they leave other children alone?

And why did their eyes shine so bright?

And from what planet did they come?

These and other questions yet to be answered at the Saturday matinee

My friends leave the theater shaking and laughing and flipping the bird

Next week it will be Dracula or Frankenstein or the Creature from the Black Lagoon

Maybe we’ll get our questions answered at the bottom of a buttered popcorn bag.

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