To my final girl, tilted towards a telephone,
throwing interrogatives into a refrigerator,
apologising in an abattoir, shunning a chaperone,
batting lashes at a billhook, berating a carburater.
As regards a sepia Pierrot, geckoid greasepaint,
jollily attired, I hereby itemise the number of stairs
of false direction, and duly italicize the faint
essence, cognate with matchsticks, that he wears.
I do this, I realise, in service of my own contrition,
because I am the scriptwriter for this Punchinello’s
performance. All of his chainsaw transgressions,
his rotary atrocities. I pen every pained libretto.
I urge you shed my damselled trope and demur
the appropriative machete, the appropriate response,
without any corn-syrup requirement to endure
the appellation that opens my correspondence.
Here a pale of pig-blood jouissance, there adrenaline
to take a pitchfork to all virginal or promiscuous
requirements. Freely avail yourself of liquid nitrogen
to glaciate any ancillary self-centredness.
With respect to a beboilersuited psychiatric
escapee, dead eyes in a Shatner-Noh, take receipt
of slashed truck-tires in a guardianless district
from the silhouette of your father as you retreat.
These pathetic gifts I will proffer until day breaks
over my farmyard or when my obscene cutlery falls.
A home while I have breath. A place by an endless lake.
Yours, a house coming from inside the call.