THE ANGRY WORLD: The Black Mass Express to Boiler City

Late October

The days grow short

like the librarian’s temper

lamenting overdue books

Clowns that kill

are tame for Boiler City

My memory banks

hold much worse events

Like a line from a Beach Boys song

I was drinking all night

Celebrating my second birth

The escape from the Black Magic Necromancer

Survival means endless expenses

I’m late for work

Deserted train platform

on a weekday

Fresh graffiti on a crumbling wall

words for conjuring dark phantoms

Train pulls into the station

a tin can coffin

I step into a musty car

Nearly empty

imitating an alcoholic’s pantry

An old lady is discarded on a seat

She smells dead

My fate might be similar

Management at the Cape Horn Furnace Company

dispenses harsh, archaic punishments

I pass out on a cold seat

And I pretend to dream of good things

Strong fingers abuse my shoulder

A ticket puncher looking for fees

My eyes creak open

Two diseased flowers blooming

I recognize the tall being dressed in black

Top hat like a cartoon villain

Crimson cape

His face blurry

Like all unspeakable things

A tomb opens when he speaks

You owe me much more than train fare

 

 

 

 

 

 

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