Time to fall of the world and go see The Beak.
Time to fold those eyes up into your head,
Sink in the arms of uncle Ned, and be wed and shod in sheet.
There sits Beak, his joints all a-creak,
Itching to leak into sleep’s candy deep,
Burning to feed on the dreams of the chaste,
Yearning to taste sweet somnambulant waste.
Up snake dream’s fingers to play in the sky,
Grey as a storm cloud and cigarette dry,
Beak clutches one feeler, misses the other,
Slides down this umbilical to his surrogate brother.
Beak’s bones are twig skinny,
His hands are too big,
His head is a nose,
And his hair is a wig.
He feeds on the sleeper,
He sucks on their spine,
He wants all our insides,
All yours, his and mine.
Once buried, ‘neath bone and ‘neath brain in the head,
He tears out its innards and bathes in the red.
Chuckling guttural and inhaling fluid,
He howls out you name and he christens you stupid.
He may come as a mother, a lover, or friend,
But make no mistake he will surely attend.
Through the fog of unconsciousness Beak will advance,
Skipping and piercing the stuff of your trance.
O yes Beak is a mean one, his red eye blood-cruel,
Plays your head like a skin flute and brands you a fool.
Ears as sharp as a razor, he salivates dread,
And a tall canvas hat hugs his ugly hook head.
Over one bony shoulder hangs a sack of black leather,
It’s contents is thousands though light as a feather,
Inside sit the minds of countless child killings,
And spattering his jacket, a million dried spillings.
His jacket is fashioned from a dozen child hides,
Tiny eyes, mouths and noses poke out from all sides,
His strides are dark green and his boots don’t exist,
He walks barefoot on clouds, all his toes cotton-kissed.
So, if one night in dream-time you hear Beak’s shrill call,
Pray to wake up right then, or wake never at all,
For he’ll rip out your mind, throw it into his sack,
And you’ll scream there forever and you’ll never come back…
© MB 1997