robert smith is really mothra

there are sirens in the east. there are sirens 
in the east and i really should be doing my homework,
but tell me, dinah, how does one possibly pay
attention to a book with no pictures in it, or a 
picture at all? picture perfect whoorled leaf girl...
there is a part of me, the elastic side, that 
stretches over everything, that knows i could be as 
pretty as any of them, or as witty, or as 
intelligent--i just choose not to, that's what i tell
myself--knowledge devours vast acres of sensibility 
and emotion, until nothing is felt anymore. the 
cumbersome numbness of too much information drowning 
out all of the circuits and refusing to allow safe 
passage through the gray matter well. i've pinpointed
leather, i've worn it in pouches, i've bathed in it, 
but it never made my flesh any less soft, my heart 
any more worn. the wrinkles faded out with age, saved 
those in time, and i folded them perfectly. lick the 
lips and cut another card--i bleed through the 
punctuation marks with a felt tip and murder the 
multiplication tables to make way for another 
revolution, the binary system of second star to the 
right...neverland is just another planet. here, with 
a click of my shoes, i could send you to oz, but i 
won't. i can't anymore. it's too late. that moment 
faded when they pushed the brick through, when they 
shattered the walls of looking glass house and left 
the jabberwock bleeding--what is it they say? those 
who live in porcelian hearts shouldn't throw stones? 
they ought to try cinnamon instead, it would be more
sensible. i've lost it, those circular bruises, but 
the scars are still there in the right light, the 
little white slash marks of centuries past glaring 
up at me in entropy from the first few rays of 
spring...february. always february. perhaps it's time 
to go hunt down a duck...not to shoot, except maybe 
pictures of. hunting season. but i don't miss her. he 
sits there and watches me curled up in a haphazard 
fetal blue mumbling something about beauty and hours, 
tucking his hair back behind his ears and curling his 
toes under...he blinks. he watches. a shimmer of 
wings to bring smiles on the lips and hearts of all 
children--he's really not god and definitely not a 
mother, but he still has that kind of power. it comes
from keys, methinks, or cosmic configurations. i can
already see him sleeping, though it hasn't happened 
yet...his eyebrows fade and a translucent veil 
appears over him and sometimes i get scared maybe 
he'll disappear (or maybe they'll turn the fog 
machines on--chiefs are often right.) i can still 
smile about it. i can still laugh, and i didn't even 
have to know jesus to do it. or the gigantic moth 
who pretends to be robert smith.