Der Wolf und die sieben Geißlein als Uhrwerk-Albtraum: der Räuber, der wie Güte klingt und immer wiederkommt. Über Missbrauch, der sich nicht ausweiden lässt.
The Wolf and the Seven Little Goats
One hides under linen,
Two bites nails 'til they bleed.
Three hums old songs about no one,
Four can't fucking breathe.
Five counts the seconds backwards,
Six stares at the door.
Seven's in the goddamn clock again,
He knows what time is for.
Mama said, "Don't talk to strangers."
But she never told them, how they smelled like.
Or how the lie sounds warm.
Or how teeth can sound like kindness.
Tick. Tock.
The bastard knocks.
Tick. Tock.
The key unlocks.
Tick. Tock.
He eats, they scream.
Tick. Tock.
It's not a dream.
He comes with chalk and polished nails,
His voice all syrup,
His tongue all knives.
He says, "Little lamb, I missed you so."
He lies like wolve(s).
And boys.
And priests.
He gulps them down like bedtime pills,
Like fairy tales dipped in bleach.
Their names dissolve in stomach bile,
No one hears them preach.
No rescue, no scissors, no survive.
Just a slow, wet, meat-grind moan.
Tick. Tock.
He knows your name.
Tick. Tock.
It tastes the same.
Tick. Tock.
It never ends.
Tick. Tock.
He feeds on friends.
Seven kids, seven doors,
Seven socks on splintered floors.
Seven cries, seven stains,
Seven lives inside his veins.
You can cut him open wide,
Fill his guts with rocks and spite,
But come next dusk,
He'll bite.
He'll bite.
He'll bite.
Mother comes home with bloody hands,
She digs through shit and bone and sand.
She sews and sings and fakes the sun,
But darling, this was never won.
You can gut a monster, sure,
But not the kind that's born from fear.
He's hiding in the hallway light.
He's smiling in the mirror, dear.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
He knocks.
He knocks.
He
never
stops.
