By Patrick O'Reilly (IG: @lunar_maria_rilke)
Previous: "The Good People as Truthtellers"
I tried to get used to it:
the weird lights, the cattle mutilations,
the lewd diagrams pressed into my grass
by underworked humanoid louts.
Getting up every morning to find
my shoes filled with green gunk
and something scrawled on my door
in the same gnarly swirls they use
to write their apology notes.
The agents have asked me not to say anything,
in the same way they ask me anything,
heavy, cold hand at the joint
where shoulder meets neck. “Cut them some slack, won’t you, Mr. O’Reilly?”
Of course. I will. Because you and I are friends, because I want to be neighbourly, because
you could, and would rather,
reduce me to ash with a wag of your finger.
And then the room is empty again.
I stomp to the basement to rejigger the fusebox.
The Little Grey Men are there, looking sheepish.
They’ve moved on to medium dogs.
They step aside to reveal the smallest one
swabbing collie blood off the concrete.
The mop is twice as tall as he is.
Something like a question takes shape,
and something like a reply.
One of them pipes warm strings to my amygdala.
and the audience says “aww.”
Tears welling up in my eyes, we hug.
And now the room is empty again.
I sigh, flick the switches, finish mopping, bury what’s left of the dog.
the weird lights, the cattle mutilations,
the lewd diagrams pressed into my grass
by underworked humanoid louts.
Getting up every morning to find
my shoes filled with green gunk
and something scrawled on my door
in the same gnarly swirls they use
to write their apology notes.
The agents have asked me not to say anything,
in the same way they ask me anything,
heavy, cold hand at the joint
where shoulder meets neck. “Cut them some slack, won’t you, Mr. O’Reilly?”
Of course. I will. Because you and I are friends, because I want to be neighbourly, because
you could, and would rather,
reduce me to ash with a wag of your finger.
And then the room is empty again.
I stomp to the basement to rejigger the fusebox.
The Little Grey Men are there, looking sheepish.
They’ve moved on to medium dogs.
They step aside to reveal the smallest one
swabbing collie blood off the concrete.
The mop is twice as tall as he is.
Something like a question takes shape,
and something like a reply.
One of them pipes warm strings to my amygdala.
and the audience says “aww.”
Tears welling up in my eyes, we hug.
And now the room is empty again.
I sigh, flick the switches, finish mopping, bury what’s left of the dog.
Next: "The Occult Digest"