Killing Me Is Not Going To Bring Back Your Apples (for The Wicker Man)


Killing Me Is Not Going To Bring Back Your Apples

(for The Wicker Man)



Upon your arrival I swear I smelt Scotland in the fear

that I felt of a life that might someday be lived

without you


doomed to roam the parking lot country side

avenging this thing which needs to be avenged upon

but minus the curse of the Wallace/Gibson shaped mullet

so when you left I totally intended to watch Braveheart

but took a left turn somewhere while wearing a yellow life vest

while flying over some taxidermy’d colored island


and ended up watching The Wicker Man instead

a movie that you despised for various unspecified reasons

but one that, despite all the clog dancing

and freak post-flower Revels choreographed music

I tend to still dig


even though now, post your leaving and me now

sitting here watching this flick, it’s taken on a brand new

meaning, I’m seeing it now these days as a sort of metaphor

for the love that I tend to still have for you

  1. the love that you no longer have for me


from the moment when the middle-aged virgin police cop

shows up in his little aqua-plane screaming toward s the people on shore

“Will you send me a dingy, please?!”



that’s where everything starts!

will you please send me a dingy?!

I start to see my love for you, through this poor sexlessly duped

movie character’s eyes

My love arrives on an island looking for the little girl that is the love

that I was under the impression that you once held for me

Looking for this little girl

who has gone mysteriously missing


My love arrives on the island and is immediately shew’d away

by a beach full of old sea men

and treated oddly by all the town folk

who claim the little girl/your love for me

does not exist


My love finds itself imprisoned on an island of lies Helen

an island of lies that’s shaped exactly like you

led there to its doom when it was just looking

for what it thought wanted to be found

It was just looking for your love!


trapped on an island upon which all the townsfolk

break awkwardly into bawdy sea songs about the Landlord’s daughter

who’s looking to bang my love for you, but that’s not going to happen Helen

because my love for you is my love for you

and like the virgin cop who’s saving

his future weiner insertions

for the sacred institution of what he thinks to be

his own impending marriage


the virgin/my love freaks out at the Landlord’s Daughter song

and demands: “I want my supper now!”

but he is denied it

then gets it later

only to discover that this dinner

it disappoints him

what he thought would be your love for him

(your love for me)

was not fresh and came served only in cans


On this island my love for you is horrified to discover

that it is surrounded by graveyards and orgies

and the virgin cop/my love, he’s repulsed because he’s a virgin

still alive so as of yet still unfamiliar with the cold embrace of tombstones

and devoting himself to various religious rituals which insist he not

un-sheath his willy, so unaccustomed to the wild orgies too


Helen, our love is part horror movie, part Duran Duran video,

and part post Michelle Brothers porn


with naked girls dancing loudly in the next room

my love for you dry humps the wall


on the blackboard upon which I write your name

in my loves search for you, there has been already written

this specific phrase which refuses to be erased:




whatever that means


during the course of this movie and entire classroom denies the existence

of your love to me, right to my face


and then eventually as in all good fever dreams,

enters the great: Christopher Lee!

on your island they don’t use the word ‘death’, Helen

which poses the dead buffalo question standing in the room



Where is love’s rotting body?! I ask

Where lies the rotting body of love?!

beneath my own body maybe

I’m just a walking cemetery? Is that it?

Because you’ve left me?

If that’s the case, then it only makes sense to go to the graveyard’s caretaker

for answers, but then the caretaker, he’s insane…


on your island Helen, the islanders eat all of their daily produce

out of cans, because the island’s crops have died

and your loves plan seems to be to sacrifice the poor dumb ass virgin

sacrifice the virgin

in exchange for fresh spinach


Is that what I mean to you, Helen?

Fresh spinach?!


My love riding side saddle dragging a little yellow cart

and when it’s asked to sit down, it’s asked to sit down

because as Christopher Lee puts it:

“Shocks are so much better with the knees bent”


We exhumed the coffin purported to contain love’s dead body

and came up with nothing but a cracked box filled with

Ritz crackers and a wrecked bunny, and death


“I hope you don’t think I can be made a fool of indefinitely.”

Helen, I hope you don’t think that

my love breaks into a taxidermy shop

heads to the basement to examine a box of old movie theater lobby cards,

discovers your preference for destroying me

  1. your love’s fondness for fresh cabbage


May Day festivity celebrations in full swing

but according to my new Marvel 2010 calendar

this thing here has nothing the fuck to do

with the month of May


townspeople don masks of woodland creatures

a thorough search is conducted of ever youse


“The Salmon of Knowledge”

after not finding anything runs to the bar for whiskey

at the festival he finds your love but it’s a trap


your love leads me through the caves with guitar noodled soundtrack


sacrifice demanded that my love come of its own free will


while they wash the body some bloke on the hill plucks out the Meow Mix theme song

on harpsichord


“Killing me is not going to bring back your apples!”, Helen!


love burned alive in a human shaped structure

of chickens and various other live stock and claws

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