Pumpkings over Petco

Por Larry Bilello.

The Pumpkin King astride an armadillo
crosses the wild western wastelands
to grapple with the Mop of Paltry Petco.
His grandmother grabs a sheepish cow
And rides along in the King’s tow.
One great vine from his head let fall,
She fastens to her silken belt,
And off they go!
Craving the sight of the whispering white
of the wiry, wet and wooly snow
scattered sloping over the blackened parking lot,
a giant ‘s white cloth wrapping volcanic rock,
a garrisoned minefield through which our heroes must walk,
to approach the Paltry Petco.
The Pumpkin King on his armadillo
and his grandmother, upright on her cow
plow through the snow banks before the snow ranks
of Petco’s savage snowmen army,
dazzling assembled in military array,
3000 thick and 4 more deep,
How would they ever ride through it?
And how the citadel of Petco approach?

For the dark Petco afar assaults the sky,
Its silhouette is a great eyebrow glowering below a business star,
Set firmly up in the Pepsico constellation,
it rides over every nation.
A red giant, no dwarf,
We wish it would morph,
or maybe screech swiftly into the land,
scorching it.
Yet today its ugly bushy brows ride
over the orange-tinted night of the nettled city.

Perhaps our King commanded his grandmom
to purse her Vespa, bring it along.
“Its ethanol clouds will rain death on snowmen,”
He probably said,
“it will melt the morbid snowmen-monsters.”
A venus fly-trap bit my nose
And I did not note the next advance
Of King and grandmom holding hands,
But I found a round rose blooming
Where a single drop of my own blood fell.
It’s velvet scent wrapped around my drawling heart,
Lifting my heart lightly, turning like a top my head
to track the King’s advance.
And I saw the Pumpkin King laughing in his chunky jaw
savagely swooping over the snowmen field,
gleaming stalagmites on a cave floor,
ice blue tulips in a Canadian meadow,
with the Pumpkin King flying over all, gloaming orange in the night,
his hang-glider red, yellow, and white.
And as I fell, bitten in the balls,
Beaten by a bumptious fly-trap,
The grandmother morphed into a mop
and wrapped herself around the King’s vine
pulling him down out of the sky.

 

Larry Bilello (22)
Undergraduate
lbilello7@gmail.com