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Part I of a scary poem about a troll that goes to Hollywood and beyond.

Troll Rising

Pz-avatarby Dan D'Agostino31 Oct 2013


Act I

In a cemetery, overgrown,
Ancient, eerie, long unknown,
In the darkest part of the darkest woods,
Troll did an audit of his personal goods.
Troll could only count to three.

“Just three things left have I!”
He shrieked and then began to cry
A rain of toxic ogre tears,
The kind that ruin biospheres,
That ardent love of self imply.

“Three things left are far too few!
Oh what’s a troll supposed to do?
Cause we need lots of shiny stuff,
And three good things are not enough.”
Troll had really thought this through.

Then and there he knew for sure,
He’d have to go where people were,
Cause we all have what money brings,
A paradise of shiny things;
The very things he did prefer.

And soon, the way it is in dreams,
He was here with us where shit just gleams
(And so it should be understood
That the darkest part of the darkest wood
Is not as distant as it seems).

He wandered into a shopping mall
That all suburban pastoral,
With fountains spraying and man-made crags
And flocks of people with shopping bags
And jingling music to soothe them all.

Seeing shoppers, Troll’s first thought,
“Look at all the shit they’ve bought.
They’re on some kind of golden path.
It fills me full of ogre-wrath
To see the things I haven’t got.”

All trollified for total war
He charged into a J Crew Store.
The shoppers wheeled and turned away
And to each other each did say,
“What a stink, this guy’s too poor

To shop with us — what the fuck?
This homeless dude, covered in muck
Is a very scary anomaly,
And he’s naked, call Security,
And he’s drooling, and the snot, I mean really? Yuck!”

Troll could get the point, sort of,
His IQ being slightly above
The mean for trolls hereabouts,
So he sneers at them and then he shouts,
“I never wanted love!”

Right on cue it then occurred,
For love, they say, is a magical word,
At least for all of certain type
Who love love; I mean, the hype.
The sentimentally disturbed

I call them. You know the kind,
Not kind themselves so much as blind,
Cause when they say “love conquers all,”
They never mean the hospital
Where the battered victims of love you’ll find.

For them love is the cutest feeling,
Super-sweet, a quite appealing
Quick uptick in self-esteem.
Not like Troll when he sees shit gleam.
Not the Love that leaves you reeling,

Broken, bleeding and torn in two,
And dances like Kali on top of you,
And leaves you for dead in the Burning Ground
And with ashes in your mouth you’re found
Ranting of demons when you come to.

The other love they never mean,
I mean the love that washes clean
Your doubts about the universe
That often pointless, cold or worse,
Sadistic, violent and obscene

Appears to you. A desolate place
To dump the useless human race.
For which this love’s a potent cure
That somehow makes the whole thing
Pure; pure enough for your embrace.

Regardless, let’s get back to Troll,
Who was just about to make heads roll
When up spoke a glamorous one,
“All you need is love, Hon!
Well, first you need to take control

Of your image. A brand new look
Will make your love life start to cook.
And lucky you, cause I’m a pro,
I host a transformation show
On TV. I’ve a pocketbook

Full of cash, just for you.
A makeover first is what we’ll do,
And then we’ll let you loose to buy
A lethal power suit and tie.
A world of women you’ll subdue.”

But what did Troll care for that?
He would have knocked this woman flat,
But the way she talked, he couldn’t think straight,
And when he came to it was far too late,
He was giggling, and having a nervous chat

With Kyle, his personal stylist
And new best friend he’d just air-kissed.
Under the klieg light’s life giving glare,
And the camera’s eye he forgot to care
For what a troll should most resist:

Concern for what a human thinks,
Unless revulsion at his stink,
Or horror at his hideous shape,
Or how the hell to best escape
The death that’s waiting on the brink.

For Death is what a Troll’s about;
He’s a hulking homicidal lout
With a lust for little shiny things.
That’s why a club he always brings
With him to bash your brains all out.

Did I not mention our Troll’s club,
His means to dispossess and drub?
Troll forgot he had one too.
Kyle was showing him his ‘do,
“We gave your head a thorough scrub,

We cut cut cut and then,” he said
“We found your rugged, handsome head.”
Troll replied all upper case,
“I FUCKING WANT TO SMASH YOUR FACE!”
Kyle dropped his shears and fled.

He took the club at his side,
And swelling up with ogre-pride,
Smashed the mirror into bits.
“I’ll have you next, you little shits.”
The camera crew were here implied.

At least to them it seemed that way,
Suffused with terror and dismay
At how events might then transpire
They ran like napalmed kids on fire
Or caught in a cluster bomb’s array.

Only the host remained to face
The death-inducing wooden mace.
She didn’t scream or run, instead,
“Look at you,” she brightly said,
“Empowered like you own the place.”

“Woman, shut your bloody trap!
All you do is yap and yap.
I’d rather hear a bullfrog croak.
Troll lost himself last time you spoke,
The inner me and all that crap.”

“Well the outer’s truly inner now.
The alpha male to which we bow.
It’s really who you always were.
May I ask you a question, sir?
A bold thought would you allow,

To birth inside your consciousness,
Of something real, for certain, yes?
Can’t you feel it inside you,
Something solid, something new?
The true you that means success

To all your will will be applied.
The doors of fame lie open wide
To one of such high caliber,
The angry man who won’t defer,
The man whose needs won’t be denied,

Who’d make the Planet Earth his bitch,
Who's destined to be filthy rich,
The rightful heir who would be king—
“Fuck you,” yelled Troll, “Give me some bling!”
“Of bling,” she soothed, “there is no dearth,

In the fabled land of Tinsel Town,
That shining jewel upon the crown
Of the wide, expanding universe.
I don’t think you would be adverse
To venture there and win renown.

To Tinsel Town embark with me.
I’ll teach you Celebrity,
How to think and how to act,
The paparazzi to attract,
To stress your bellicosity.

From ugly duckling into swan,
The ugly kind they fawn upon,
Will be your transformation.
A rebirth to let a lonely nation
Dream again of a new dawn.”

“Tinsel, ain’t that shiny stuff?
Troll likes the way that sounds enough.
For a city made of shining things
Troll can wait before he wrings
Your neck, your little life to snuff.”

Mindful of Troll’s new resolve,
We’ll let the current scene dissolve,
And watch the light fade from the screen
And wash the current image clean
And let the lonely earth revolve.

© 2013 Dan D’Agostino, Toronto, Canada