Ask me what is scary. You who adore
shrieks at midnight, chainsaws and blood. A wave
of red dye number nine. As much fake gore
as your ticket stubs allow. See this grave,
ladies and gentlemen? Do not once doubt
that the dead will sleep. That gypsies don’t curse.
That Jack’s giant has stopped stomping about,
shouting, “fe – fi – fo – fum!” There is perverse
joy in being afraid, I’m told, of things
that can’t hurt you. As if to say, “scare me
again with the ridiculous doings
of cheap nightmares.” Because that’s not scary.
Work at a safe house; hear about terrors
that look like men, what we call real monsters.