Saturday, February 28, 2009

Poem in Tribute to A Terrifying Dream

lets call this one "The Baker"

They’re sweet and savory
And oh so delicious too.

This is the story of a baker
Who may seem a bit mad to you
He would bake pies oh so sweet
And sell them to children
Children like me and you
But he became dissatisfied
With his kind of cooking
His pies were like heroes
He’d say with a grin
They save us from hunger
They save us from sadness
They can always save the day
They make you all happy
They pick you all up
And yes, every single day
So he made pies with pears and
Chicken and Apple, and
Everything under the sun
His pies were delicious
Loved by all who could taste them
Except a single one;
The baker seemed unhappy
His meat pie was lacking
He loved them but they were wrong.
So he chopped someone up
And tried them in the pot
And finally he tasted some one
His smile was wide
His smile was huge
His wide body and face
It all seemed to move
The taste was delicious.
His pie was his hero
It had salvaged his day
And it made him feel good.
So it couldn’t be true
But maybe it is
This tale so morbid and perverse
But I hope you remember the baker
His glory and defeat
He called his pies “heroes”
For they would save your day
The would put you on your feet
They could make you jump up
They could make you smile
They could make you feel good inside
But ultimately the question
Said with a smile
Is for you to remember too
The question he asked
When he first got a taste
For cannibal pie stew:

Who wants to be a hero too?

I just woke up from a nightmare, in the nightmare, what looked like a mad, talking, typewriter tells me with perfect rhyme, the story of a baker who dices himself from head to toe, smiling like mad, and bakes himself, then writes the entire poem on the typewriter (yes, implying an insane ghost.) the whole thing accompanied by pictures which were kind of burtonesque. i would see a pie maybe, but mostly i would see the baker and his horrific smile.

But what surprises me most, is that my brain can compose terrifying poetry with perfect rhyme in my sleep,

and that all i can remember when i'm awake is the last line and the premise.

and the rhyme scheme and cantor (which were constant and fantastic) go out the window.


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