Hammering the Bored

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“I have problems,” he says
“Oh yeah?” I say, “Tell me.”
“My wife is driving me crazy,” he says
“You should fuck her more,” I say
“She doesn’t like to fuck,” he says
“You should tell her to get a hobby,” I say
“I also hate my job,” he says
“You should quit and be a farmer,” I say
“My boss is such an asshole,” he says
“You should quit, then kill your boss,” I say
“My house needs repairs,” he says
“You should burn down your house,” I say
“I’m not insured,” he says
“So get insurance, then light a match,” I say
“I don’t like your attitude,” he says
“Then you should stop talking to me,” I say
“You shouldn’t give advice,” he says
“Then stop asking it from me,” I say
… no one speaks
for a long moment …

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“What’s that hammer for?” he asks
“To bash my hand in when I get too bored,” I say
“I would never do that,” he says
“I know you wouldn’t,” I say
“That’s grotesque,” he says
“You’re just like the rest of them,” I say
“going on and on about your problems,
not one of you willing to
bash in your own hand
with a hammer.
That’s why you’re all
so god-damned boring.”

-BSB

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Gnashing Teeth Outside the Chained Gates

Suck dog water, you itchy scum.
I can’t believe your kind have survived this long.

You probably hold not a clue how reviled you are,
cushioned in your own delusion by a skull thick with illusion.

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I hope you choke.
You fucking toad.

You won’t get away with your hateful game too long.
The wolves will hunt you down, make no mistake.

How you made it this far, you tainted scrap of humanity, I haven’t a clue.
Shouldn’t you have died off with the seven-legged mud crabs and trilobites?

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You’re scum.
You’re worse than malaria.

Exile would be too kind.
What you deserve is incineration.

Death by massive fire-blasting until your hair crisps and skin curdles.

Your blackened crust will feed the urchins,
and any fortune you and your wretched ilk
will sink into the murky mire of obscurity.

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When each of you swine meet your demises, I will dance and sing.

BSB

That Which Takes the Dark

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4 a.m., and sleep seemed a thing impossible.

The mottled face of the ceiling was like that of the moon,
pale and barren, and offering nothing.

His eyes moved to the orange strip of street-lamp glow
cast across the bedroom wall by the window.

He watched the steam from the sewer drains
wash and dance
like ripples across a mud puddle,
before once again glancing at the hands
of the Big Ben clock at his bed-side.

Sleep wasn’t coming.

It had made its appearance brief, and seemingly
had moved on, leaving him to yearn.

Now, he did yearn,
but attempted to stop, for he knew
such an act would yield nothing.

-BSB

Princess of the Wastelands

I can hear her now
from across the room:

the princess, with doe eyes

she believes she lives here
this is her living room,
and these are her people

a party
her party, perhaps
and she’s doing her duty, entertaining guests

until the music dies

and the curtain falls

BSB

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Hummingbirds

It just didn’t make sense. Not yet at least.
Questions buzzed his skull like hummingbirds on a vengeful tear, and he had not the answers with which to sate them.
Perhaps if he drank enough, they would come. Perhaps if he sat at the bar long enough, the world would simply move on. Perhaps, he thought and laughed to himself, if frogs didn’t have wings or whatever they used to say. Fuck.

BSB

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This Affair will be the Death of us All

The gracious palm extended by our host
Makes light the anxious air inside the hall
Regretfully he dare not leave his post
Or else to chance abandon he the ball

The streamers tickle tops of drinks in toast
To health and happy tidings one and all
Tonight we dance ’til give we up the ghost
And mark we morning by the rooster’s call

But lo, our gracious host is absent nigh
And slowly dies the music feeding dance
As dim the candle flames about us grow

We see the celebration is a lie
And curse the name of horrid happenstance
That takes us with the dying candle’s glow

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