THE ANGRY WORLD: The Death of Fleeting Ghosts

Hangovers storm through with the frequency of cold spring rain

Another listless day imprisoned in my car

Burning off miles trying to get away from myself

People that love me just want to help

That is pain I refuse to endure

I would rather drink piss warm house gin garnished with herpes

I roll through the seedy part of town

An old Art Bell show talking about Satan is on the radio

I remember the skinny, skanky and sweet blonde lady

had the devil tattooed on her bony chest

Her stage name was pilfered from Irish folklore

Even drunk I doubted she lived the Life of Riley

She liked heroin and pills and poetry by Milton

And offered good rates for sixty minutes of humanity

In the sticky porno theater of my mind

played a ratty 16mm snuff film of her house

Faded yellow paint chipped like her teeth

Curtains were stained bed sheets

I pounded on the dented steel door

A being well past their expiration date appeared

This  jittery dude with a greasy beard and chin zits

knew who I was looking for

He lamented her funeral was the happiest day of her life

I turned away, tears welling up in eyes that stung

The death of fleeting ghosts that haunt

for a single happy moment in a lifetime of drudgery

was more painful than a dead parent, spouse or friend

Beautiful monsters that tortured us for decades

out of everlasting love.