THE ANGRY WORLD: Christmas in Boiler City

A cold drizzle chilled frozen citizens and kept man eating bugs under subway platforms

It washed blood and human meat down the sewers littered with discarded ornaments

There was no remedy for the cavernous potholes that swallowed buses

or crystal meth sharks that chewed up and spit out junkies

I stumbled into a liquor store subsidized by an intrusively sentient State

I needed to put some cheap booze on my temperamental credit card

the purchase went through signaling a new Christmas Miracle

like the Little Drummer Boy pounding out Rush songs for Baby Jesus

A sidewalk Santa spoke to me as I shuffled past him like a tragic memory

Words of scorn that came with the odor of roasted chestnuts and liver disease

My dirty room in a motel with crusty sheets had been pillaged by Visigoths

or a lonely tech drone with a dark history and moonshine dreams

A hooker down the hall overdosed on pills and a .38 slug to the brain

The only ones seeing her goodies were the cops who scraped her off the walls

I drank and drifted into dark corners of the crumbling mansion of my mind

A Christmas Parade played on the clunky television I was using as a bar

It was sponsored by the Satanists at The Cape Horn Furnace Company

The sound of footsteps on the roof stirred me from my sleep

like I was in a boiling cauldron being prepped for a witch’s dinner

In the hellish light from the television my history caught up to me

A tall shadow stood in the doorway and smiled like a murderous child

The Black Magic Necromancer

My personal Ghost of Christmas Past

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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