When I was a tiny brute, I’m pretty sure there used to be a program on TV called Teen Angel, starring Jason Priestley as a comely corpse on a mission from God. Sounds improbable, I admit. Here’s a little poem about it:
For I have stood on the yawning chasm
Between midnight and sun-up,
While the witches widdershinned about the arcade
And hexed Pac-Man
Causing his yellow balls to atrophy
And Pac-Girl to run into the spermatazoic sleeves
Of that creep from Bubble Bobble
(What do you think he spun them bubbles outta, bub?).
Now Pac-Man heaves his blighted sack about the mazes of
Playing tag with my saggy-sheeted brethren.
I’m a ghost too,
But instead of rocking the damp eiderdown
I got this authentic-looking pleather jacket
And a pompadour.
And instead of chasing yellow balls around mazes,
I do God’s work and pout.
Sometimes the two coincide:
God works in mysterious ways.
You might know me as the Disney James Dean.
Or you might know me as Teen Angel,
The pubic poltergeist.
But you can call me