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Blackout night, self induced hell in a bottle. Dance of a thousand devils upon the pinhead of a shrunken iris in a glass filled eye socket. Demon brew brouhaha, sold your soul for a fifth of black labeled fuck all signed it away in broken-nose-brawl blood. Absolute absolution of all inhibition, indignant ignition of the tethers of reason, reprehensible responsibility rages on a pyre, slamming pistons jackhammer, spirits flood, driving them home with their combustion, phone poles turn picket fence in a hurtle to the crossroads but Beelzebub brakes for souls and owns your foot. Toes splinter under the force. Sinews snap with the whiplash of the sudden halt, inches from oblivion. The words "too soon to leave yet." echo in your mind, car door creaks, a tumble and heap and you find yourself stinking and disheveled on the side of the road to nowhere. Your ride’s totaled, teetering on the lip of a pit, flames licking at the rubber till it drips black goo like the liquor-blood-sweat squeezing from your pores. Satan shows back up in the form of a state trooper who kicks the shit out of you before saying a word, cracking your skull like an egg encasing a pulsing membrane. His tongue flicks out and slathers your throbbing brain. You catch a glimpse of your sorry face in his shade and finally he says "Boy, what’s a soul worth if it aint soiled?" You snap awake in a sleazy motel, with a hair-lipped hooker coiled around you, her breath hissing from her like a wounded snake. The ceiling’s paint peels away to reveal your contract- signed and binding. Blackout night, self-reduced shell, the mottled skin of what-was-once a man, now the shambling dead, slouching in wait for the day the devil collects his due Post a comment in response: |
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