"Micky Mouse, on Dropping a Bomb Over the Enemies of America in the Thick of WWII", Valen Lim
There are obligations, and then there
are obligations – where there won’t be
a man holding up a placard to tell you
to stand and applaud. Born to be
a living flag, I wait on stage
for the lights to come on. Donald
wrote me a letter, three weeks ago, his ink
running slapdash bomb-run down the paper.
He wrote of the sea and the voices within.
Gosh, some days you just aren’t animated.
You follow the storyboard laid out for you
and let everything else colour itself in. These
cues are easier to follow, like a bleeding
dog in the street. For example, if someone
opens a door, someone is to walk through it.
If I open a door on my B52, something
is going to go through it. When I go to sleep
in the barracks, I try not to dream of death
in technicolour. I close my eyes and press
the button. To dream of a clubhouse
to retire to, magic as real, where
the cartoons go on forever and ever.