Sadie
Maskery

A child, small – staring at what seems

shredded cocoons of hellspore hung

suspended in a vast tomb,

or cauls, slip slapping down a turbine

that creaks and leaks, the loathly creep

of chains through slime drenched floor –

turns away towards the door.

A tour guide holds forth on

body horror, the decayed viscera

of industrial decline, yah de blah,

but no, it‘s worse than that.

It‘s revolting pretentiousness.

If sludge congealed upon the wires

and grew into those membranous

demon wing parts splayed

to chill the core of cognoscenti

then perhaps I would be unnerved.

But these are faux flayed drapes –

plastic canvas pre-tattered to ensure

they fan and drip through pastel gore

with sufficient sloppiness to awe.

Schlock horror mockery, a freaky grift.

What puerile ego creates carnival tawdry,

clunking, cartoon hell, when Armageddon

is birthing in bloody reality? Clever to repeat

interminably the same trick,

a production line of necrotic parts

ichor dripping on the brick.

More skins hung by a bored technician.

Gimmicks from a failed magician.