Hello Fiends,
This is the sequel to another poem I have posted on here called ‘A Curious Electricity’.
OCTOBER TIDES
The days crawl in and the years crawl out
Spreading an infection of contentment and doubt
Then in times of unrest, October drops in
To check up on the person you’ve become and see how you’ve been
A time when inanimate objects are methodically given face
Fears are no longer concealed, but eagerly embraced
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What Is The Montauk Monster?
Well, the cleverly dubbed Montauk Monster is an unidentifiable rotting carcass that mysteriously washed ashore near, you guessed it—Montauk, New York. The story began on July 12th, 2008, as a group of friends went for a stroll along the tranquil shores of Montauk, when they happened upon the strange, decomposing husk of a creature crumpled in the sand. It was unlike anything they had ever seen before. It had webbed feet, a bird-like beak, and was completely hairless. A single photograph of the Montauk Monster was taken and history was made.
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It Is Certainly Off Course, Of Course, Of Course
No more school
Summer is finally here
Now it’s off to boys camp
After a long boring year
With your bags all packed
Leave the parents behind
No homework, no chores
It’s time to unwind
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Remember When We Were Spontaneous, Now Were Just Combustible
There is nothing better
When your legs start to hurt
Than sitting in your recliner
After a day of hard work
A beer in one hand
Cigarette in the other
The television flickers
As sleep begins to smother
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It Was A Dark And Stormy Night
A dark noir tale of epic proportions told entirely through vignettes
Darkness Surrounds, Then
The Low Moaning Of A Single Cello
Rain, Falling Like Pebbles
The Onset Of A Five-O-Clock Shadow
Forty-Eight Hours Wide-Eyed
In Dire Need Of Sleep
The Grumbled Delivery Of A Morbid One-Liner
A Crouching Shadow On The Arriving Train
The Bait And Switch
A Clever Ruse
Replacement Of The Bottled Gin With Liquid Explosive
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A CACTUS TELLS NO TALES
He arrived in a muzzle flash—a speeding bullet ripping through the orange horizon. Orchestrated by a wild spinning of tires, a reanimated cemetery of dust arose in his wake. It hovered like an apparition behind Leonard’s sports car as he tore down a barren stretch of desolate desert road. Not a single living creature could be seen or heard for miles, except for the occasional persevering cactus. After a few seconds the resurrected dust fluttered back to its resting place, until it would be called upon to haunt the next unsuspecting passerby.
Leonard sat idly behind the wheel of his speeding bullet, en route from Las Vegas to Los Angeles for an upcoming weekend photo shoot. Any normal photographer, especially one of his ilk and notoriety, would have just taken a private jet, but Leonard refused to fly anywhere. Most of his clients considered this fear to be highly irrational and quite the business problem, causing his personal assistant many scheduling headaches. But based on Leonard’s theory, if an airplane malfunctioned while airborne, most likely it would fall twenty thousand feet toward its untimely demise, but no matter how dangerous automobiles were—they rarely fell from the sky.
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THE ROSE PEDDLER
God, how Raymond hated the city—it was a festering disease, spreading across the countryside. Every time he blinked, every time he slept, every time he turned his back, the steel girders creaked and the concrete walls closed in around him. In his forty-three years of life, he had remained the same, still a country bumpkin by heart. Not just by heart, but by liver and kidneys, brain and lungs, sinew and skin. He couldn’t stomach the city; his anatomy just wasn’t designed for it. Where the country expanded, the city contracted. Where the country stretched, the city shrank.
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The Rose Peddler: Unhappy Ending
As he drove down his favorite stretch of forgotten road, in his favorite forgotten valley, he sped.
Faster, faster.
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***You Have Clicked The Link To Read The Rose Peddler Happy Ending, Proceed Below***
The Rose Peddler: Happy Ending
As Raymond drove down his favorite stretch of forgotten road, in his favorite forgotten valley, he sped.
Faster, faster.
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A Corpse In My Bed
Is it wrong,
To have a corpse in my bed?
I do not think so,
Even if she is dead.
I do not think it is disturbing,
I do not think it is a crime.
Even though she has been expired,
for quite some time.
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