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.