I didn’t find you in Themyscira,
but protesting from Twitter Jail,
Diana Prince, in black skull pasties,
whose birthday I must hail.
Late is the hour,
that this gift will finally be seen,
after zombie parts, and puny words,
did I find you — the Mail Girl — on Halloween.
What presents can be offered,
to a girl that’s seen it all,
who’s clearly bought your gory props
from endless trips to the Chopping Mall?
Yet there must be something left to get
a person who’s among Fam’s fellow horror geeks,
someone who rolls your eyes at Ralphus,
and groans at the finger sandwiches of Bloodsucking Freaks.
Demonic oompa loompas aside,
there might yet be a chance,
to say something more about a girl
who wants to show a larger Maniac from within your pants.
But this is no Crime Suspenstory,
about a head separated by an axe from its nethers,
though is it really a Seduction of the Innocent,
when you talk about someone who loves killing those Heathers?
Memories in tangents,
as you watch with us on screen that strange desire,
to witness the Brain Damage from another pair of pants,
and the psychedelic glory of Aylmer’s fire.
You’re the type that pets the blue worm upon your shoulder,
as he hums on with his tune,
and though you like the visceral colour, Deep Red,
it’s probably a giallo that is too awkward to fully consume.
We got to experience, together,
the Kaufman Troma of War.
Yet would Barb and Ken blow ups become anything
more than another bore?
I can’t do this, in one cut, like the dead.
Something else will have to be done, for Diana, instead.
For I can see you between white linen sheets,
with a determination that I must insist,
wearing a pallid guise so startling sudden
It could scare a cowboy with a knife from the third Exorcist.
Perhaps that is a gift that would keep on giving,
endless dialogue written for a conclusion forgone,
Enough to keep you up and exhausted,
until feeling Deadbeat at Dawn.
Certainly, that’s at the soul of a Monster Movie Marathon.
I find at this point in this rhyme,
that I’m at something of a loss.
I mean, isn’t writing this — for you — like Hollywood in a Grindhouse —
smelling of Dead Heat, and duck sauce?
Perhaps that last phrase came out wrong,
like a Green Inferno in the lawn-mowed grass,
but that is a can-of-bull in the turtle soup
Which does not take away from your understated sass.
There is something in the Mayhem,
of seeing the Mail Girl dress from a film about a bloody corporate class.
Only to watch, together, a Kabuki Caligari, a Metropolis internalized,
an Iron Man of junk named Tetuso, an Akira-devotee, taking it up the —
Anyway. It was not a drill,
though I have a little more to say,
even though it’s two nights late,
from the time of your birthday.
Letters read, trophies brought, and Silver Bolos in advance,
I see you in the other things
in the chuckles, quiet oh dear gods, smirks, and that particular blue-eyed glance.
But I think the thing I looked forward to the most
was when Shudder, finally, re-released the time when you got to dance.
From the belief of blood, and breasts, and beasts,
a Pandemonious Paradise Islander, and a Pr0n Knight, too,
I wish you the best, Diana, hell-o fiend:
a Happy Mutant Fam Birthday to you.
The Horror Doctor 