Doctor Moreau retracts his claws, says,
“You are running out of time,” says,
“Your eyes are falling out,” says,
“Your spirits are escaping your sockets.”
“Don’t let us go,” my eyes screech.
“You have no say,” the doctor responds,
“Your ears have developed cochmognitis.”
I don’t understand.
I ask. He responds.
“Your ears wake no frozen rivers.” says,
“No tinny frequencies
can unfasten the waters.”
Make sense, please.
His napalm laugh echoes
the genocide pheromones.
It rattles my icy tunnels.
“The ones arched over your rivers.”
He saw my thoughts. Damn it.
They project in my frigid caverns,
like the Iceland mines.
I reach up, daintily caress
the icicles, for fear of shattering,
exploding ideas, like nuclear apples,
tempting no one, with dry, burnt
“I will preserve your mind
in the cryostasis masquerade.”
The good doctor’s eyes heighten,
“Your burdens are erased,” says,
as he extends his fangs
for the feast.