The scuttle of rats in the attic of my brain
Matches the scratches of a sharpened pencil
Picking at a string of lines
I can hear them
Spilling over one another
In a hungry stream of consciousness poisoned with acid
Unhappy visions liquid with happy colors
Buck teeth
Stained with death
Sharp as razors
Diseased breath
Tearing at the delicate seams
of sanity
Reality a fat frightening snake
A moccasin on the surface of the lake
Jocassee (sink my ass-ee)
Devil’s Fork
So late in the season
Gliding fast and serpentine at my face
For some reason
Has returned here tonight
As an anaconda
Slithering up, up, up
From my pulsing cock to the burning GERD in my throat
A not quite human face and a not quite friendly smile
Black bottomless eyes
Spits and goes for the choke
Oh fuck
Find someone else to haunt
You bastard of the devil
I’m turned on by what God has forbidden
The love of my life
Now another man’s wife
Mene mene tekel upharsin
Numbered, numbered, weighed, divided
It’s 3:33
Unholy trinity
Three strikes of three and you’re out, sonny boy
Duck, duck, goose! You’re it!
Pack your shit
She was your heaven
This is your hell
Fact is
A rainbow X written by an unknown finger from wall of motel
Drips like slime
The lowest of the low
Even hell has it’s standards
Pull the gun and pop you one
Never get high alone
Your soul will moan like a stormy wind
You can’t go back again
You twatwaffle
You make me laugh
Sling your semen and concentrate
Write your way out of here
Write as if her life depends upon it
Because yours no longer matters
You know that, right?
So write
Write, write, write
There’s hidden treasure in the attic
Or maybe deep in the smelly cunt of the basement
Don’t go down there tonight
Two lesbians asked for a threesome and you ran away
Dizzy with brandy on your breath and a strip of something under your tongue
That’s what you get
Let the room melt upon you
Write and suffer the consequences
You’re not off to a good start and you never know how to finish
The sun will rise on another night
Pray, man!
Pray to the Saint of All the Fucked
Whoever he is
Saint Cephalophore with his head in hand
A juggling court jester
Playing with his balls
Dropping your calls
Telling bad jokes
Like the garlic man at the bar
With a wooden stool up his ass
Trying to steal from the tip jar
A likeable unlikeable loser
What’s your story, I asked
What’s yours, he replied
Hell if I know
The point of my pencil is broken
Andrew Dabar