I hate Walt Disney. It’s not just the goody good
princesses, on their beautiful death beds,
having pricked their finger on the spinning wheel,
leaving them in limbo, their souls clamoring to get out
of that plastic shell, not really pretty,
just not burdened with ugliness,
as I am
burdened, trying to exercise it away,
eat it away with vitamins and vegetables.
I hate Walt Disney for time after time murdering
the little lion’s father in some animated Oedipal tragedy,
leaving Bambi’s mother in the burning woods,
Pinocchio an orphan, and worst of all, Dumbo’s mother
rocking her baby through prison bars,
as mothers have sometimes been forced to do,
while princesses everywhere sleep like the dead –
their ribs sinking into their softening chests,
their eyes sucked back into their sockets,
their hair ratty, their gowns decomposing,
their dying smiles hooked on one side,
like evil clowns,
and the handsome prince wanting,
because he was taught to want,
to kiss the decaying thing.
I hate Walt Disney, that bastard, who sold us
what beautiful was, and then wasted
no time killing it.
