Everyone said that horseback drama
had taken it’s toll on Nautilus Glen.
He was prone to vanishing into mystical haze.
The former jockey’s dreadlocks
concealed him like a burka.
He knew the gardens too well to part them.
After what appeared to be another morning
of sending telepathic messages
to a statue of Zeus,
Nautilus turned to address me.
When he finally spoke,
his words painted a picture as disturbing
as a Munch and Picasso hybrid.
“The frozen wasteland of his soul is on fire.
His granite liquefying gaze,
makes sparks of supernovas.
His enemies melt like hail stones
stranded in the core of the sun.
What say you, Surreal Art Pyschonaut?
“Um, um, that’s amazing” I muttered,
hoping supreme admiration
is still the solution to the equation
that is Nautilus Glen.
He shook his head.
“What it is, is dangerous” he mumbled,
as he glanced nervously over his shoulder,
before continuing his silent conversations
with stone locked divinity.
“Whose granite liquefying gaze” I wondered.
It was 3a.m
when my upstairs bedroom window shattered.
As I hurried downstairs, my bowels loosened.
Thankfully the doors were locked and bolted.
.22 calibre rifle in hand,
I gazed at the yards from the balcony.
There was something inhuman,
about it’s leering grin.
It’s eyes made the Spanish inquisition
look as harmless as a bee hummingbird.
Aware I was on the verge
of pulling the trigger,
It’s hideous smile broadened,
as it turned
and casually walked away.
I wasn’t sure whether to call the police,
a psychiatrist, or an exorcist.
Footprints leading into the forest
made up my mind.