Arthur Radish and the Cut-Up Girl (poem)

Who is Arthur Radish? An inter-dimensional being, I think. A trickster figure. A frightening and sad, helpless and utterly destructive force that sometimes has difficulty tying his shoes and often annihilates entire civilizations with a sneeze. He’s a god, I guess, who doesn’t know he’s a god.

As for the girl…I’m not sure. My wife thinks she’s made of paper. I like that.

Arthur Radish and the Cut-Up Girl

She, at the induction point, made a right bloody sight,
her handbag packed with the glass that cut her feet,
her hands, and her side worse than any nail or spear.
Her unblessed forehead soared miles above her body
and glowed in the light of a frighteningly close harvest moon.

Meanwhile, Arthur Radish chewed his nose and thought
seismic thoughts and daydreamed of waves that bore his name
and hissed against cold shorelines: Radishhhh, Radishhhhh….
From his late Cretaceous perch, he watched the evening unfold
and beheld the girl bereft of seraphs, though deserving of more.

Bent of frame and keen of eye is he, thought the gruesome girl
as Arthur shifted space-time and wormholed toward her,
gathering momentum until he was distilled quicksilver.
When they met, he took her into his crooked arms and moaned,
and the girl closed her red eyes in what she hoped was bliss.

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