Week 1 vs Blue Bayou
He’s early this time. Home from the bar - twelve thirty at night
He fumbles as he takes off his faded shirt and his tie
His stomach’s turning, - full of bottom shelf bourbon and rye
Now there’s a whole new reason he’s feeling churned up inside
It’s been a month since it happened. He doubts the hurt’ll subside
There’s a giant whole inside him where he’s missing his purpose and pride
He lays down in bed quietly, hopes he’s not disturbing his wife
She reaches for his hand. Damn. He flinches and turns to the side
“Talk to me” she urges. He shakes his head, murmurs and sighs
“You’re still thinking about that loss?” - “…Yes.” He curtly replies
“Baby, I don’t understand this. You can’t just curl up and die…”
He grits his teeth as she drones and her tone becomes churlish and snide
“…Like you don’t have family to live for?? We don’t deserve this, besides
It’s just a silly online tournament, it isn’t worth it to pine…”
His brow furrows, fists clench - knuckles turning to white
“… none of it matters, baby! No-one’s even heard of Blue Bay-”
SMACK! “What the FUCK did you say to me???” He screams in a furious cry
He grabs her by the wrists. She sees the anger burn in his eyes
“No, wait… I didn’t mean … Please, you’re hurting me Ry!”
“You don’t know who Blue Bayou is?!” - SLAP! - “You’ll learn it tonight!
Mouth off and it’s your mouth off, you fucking herb of a wife”
“Please, I don’t know what that mea-” “I SAID SHUT UP YOU WORTHLESS DYKE!
Tell me who’s verses are fly, eh? – SMACK! – Who’s wording’s precise?”
“B-b-Blue Bayou?” she sobs. He answers smirking, “that’s right.”
“Who’s the fucking king of wordplay? Who keeps the personals tight?”
“Blue - SMACK! - Bayou!!!” she tearfully blurts as he strikes
“And WHO leaves his opponents in a FUCKING URN when he writes?!?!”
SMACK! SMACK! “BLUE BAYOU!!!” she shrieks in fervent reply
“YESSSSSSS!!!” he hisses as he frantically works at his fly
Then pulls out the turgidest five inches she’s ever observed in her life
Before she knows what’s happening he starts inserting it dry
Hurting her thighs as he grips them, he pistons without mercy inside
“GREATEST… OF… ALL... TIME...” he thrusts - each word is in time
His face contorts as he climaxes, body jerks and then writhes
When it’s over she curls in a ball. Covered in purple-ish blights
He leaves, while SHE'S left simply yearning to die
Weeks pass. She’s still too numb to be concerned with the why
All she feels is a growing sensation that her worth as a person’s declined
The woman who once stood next to him becomes a silenced girl who’s behind
Now she’s empty inside too… The vicious circle’s alive
Week 2 vs timeless
The jagged squeak of an office chair cuts through the hum of computers
Somewhere to my right there’s a flutter of movement
I don’t look up. They might be watching.
I never know when the webcam’s on, or when they capture a screen shot
But I know if I’m caught distracted my career can collapse into free fall
They access the key logs. Check my browser history, app use
Who I’m emailing and why, how many times I visit the bathroom
The monitor’s monitored. Phone line’s tapped - they listen to that too
The job’s a digital panopticon. Cell number iMac six seven dash two
The argument’s simple. They have the right to target this info
You’re paid to be here, they want to realise all your potential
Time theft’s a crime and it must be guarded against, so
They take simple security measures. Merely locks on the windows
My social media’s a wasteland, littered with perfunctory edits
Everything carefully curated to conform to the company’s ethics
Hand in every part of my life til I can’t tell where the puppetry’s end is
It’s not enough to be productive. You must adopt the proper aesthetics
My break is 11:05 today. Room C. It’s always different.
Two others I’ve never met before introduce themselves. John & Tristan.
I microwave my meal, taking two of my allotted minutes
We make small talk from approved topics, observing the proper limits
Even here, they watch and listen. They say it’s for our security
The scrutiny keeps us free from the freedom to speak with impunity
The honest worker knows that none of this is alarming.
Just keep your mind on the job. Relax. Big Business is watching.
Week 3 vs brokenhal0
Be not afraid, traveller. The sign read in cursive lettering
Eternal bliss awaits. Your spirit stands on the verge of entering
Soon to meet your maker. However, you are yet unworthy
Here you must remain until fit to commence your journey
All sin must be washed away before you can hope to ascend
In the godly rains of purgatory, your imperfect soul will be cleansed
…
Mortals had heard the story. They didn’t know it was first rate horse shit
Invented at the turn of the century after the birth rate soared quick
What happened to war & pestilence? Good old fashioned flood & famine?
Now humans were living long enough to breed like fucking rabbits
Michael had fucking had it. The caseload was a ridiculous ask
Weighing the souls of the dead became an outrageous logistical task
A backlog of billions waiting to be classed as ’saved’ or ‘damned’
How the fuck was he supposed to explain to them the massive delays at hand?
He’d scratched his balls, made a plan, concocted a suitable spin…
The fawning faithful embraced the lie, even called it a beautiful thing.
…
Michael paces the control room. “NEXT!” His timbre is thundering.
Paul, a simpering underling, pushes some buttons & fiddles with knobs.
The data finishes buffering. The image appears on the video wall -
A lone figure at a bus stop. “Right, what’s this idiot called?”
“This is umm… uhhh…” Paul scrambles to find what page it’s on
Lands on what he’s looking for. “This is David… uhh… Davidson?”
He checks his notes again, looking through them just in case
Michael’s nostrils are flaring. “What a stupid fucking name.
He looks too young and healthy. What’s this cocksucker here for?”
“It says he was cleaning his rifle and…” A raised eyebrow. “Dear lord…
The chamber was loaded… he slipped as he ran his thumb past
The safety was off, his kids were home and heard the gun blast.”
Michael snorts. “What a dumb ass!” – a special disdain for David’s type
Old enough to procreate, young enough to just fucking stay alive.
“And what’d this asshole do with his miserable little claim to life?”
“Well, uhh… He never killed anyone, never cheated on or shamed his wife…
He turned his family out weekly in all of their Sunday best…
… he was a big fan of the big guy.” Michael’s eyes roll. Unimpressed.
“But,” Paul continues, “He overstated his own importance…
When travelling on planes he was prone to claim both the armrests…
He’d hit reply all on emails when it definitely wasn’t warranted…
Waited til the front of Starbucks queues to decide on what his order is…
Oh! And one time, he called his neighbour a, “churlish cunt” …”
Michael picks at his teeth. “Alright then, I’ve heard enough.”
…
The vehicle approaches. Barbed wire on windows.
The sign on the front flashes - Next Stop: Fire & Brimstone
...
Michael arrives home. His thoughts pace an arrhythmia
He shrugs off his white uniform with the Arcangel insignia
Glass of Scotch. Fade to oblivion. Try to forget the job that he hates.
Angry. He flings his halo against the wall, and it breaks.
Week 4 vs Master Rock
Topic:
“Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine." - Casablanca, 1942
I told her right at the start – I couldn’t do love if I tried.
We’d have fun for a time, but then there’d be others after her.
A odd kind of bachelor, I was what she’d been hunting to find.
She was younger - an amateur. Beauty unassuming and modest.
I’d been a long time in a dark place. Her touch drew me from it.
She whispered her desire. At first, so tentative and awed.
I brought her fantasies to life. She reveled in my charms.
And in the elementary warmth of a glowing lamp, holding hands
I felt the flicker of possibility… Of hope… Of chance…
But long nights turned to long days, and days became weeks.
She began to rub me the wrong way. I grew impatient to leave.
She wanted more from me. Inevitably, they all did.
She asked and she asked, searching for words I wouldn’t find fault with.
But solitude was my constant. And the bottom of a bottle.
It was time for our story’s third act. The argument was awful.
She couldn’t understand. And as she grasped for an answer
Tearfully she marvelled at my detached, dispassionate manner -
“I wish I was like you.”
“I wish I was like you.” - I’ll never forget how she uttered the line.
Sullen. Resigned. While her eyes accused me of cowardice.
I never felt so acutely as powerless as when that chaos flooded my mind.
It was sudden and violent. She never struggled or cried.
I hit her with a terrible force - never before had I summoned its kind.
In a thunderous silence, her body thrashed and shuddered and writhed,
twisting like a grotesque contortionist in the midst of a stuttering light.
It was… a metamorphosis. A second coming of life.
Mortal to indentured sorceress… No more telling her she wasn’t my type.
And as our physical forms dissolved I saw the horror erupt in her eyes.
And the vessel I was bound to sputtered and sucked us inside.
And she raged and she howled and screamed curses up to the skies,
til her voice grew raw and rasping and she said that she wanted to die.
But I couldn’t indulge a death wish, or grant her another besides,
and like I told her right at the start – I couldn’t do love if I tried.
So we exist in uncomfortable silence, passing nothing but time.
Ethereal, our fates entwined. Waiting for someone to find.
It could have been another. I lose days to wondering why -
of all the Djinn joints in all the world, she had to come into mine.
Week 5 vs Eviction
Topic: “THE DEVIL IN MY BLOODSTREAM”
5 years ago…
He unloads a cooler from his new sedan’s roof racks
A giggling niece runs barefoot over freshly mown bluegrass
A few drinks. A few laughs. Cheers. He lifts a huge glass.
A long conspicuous gawk at the sister-in-law with the huge ass.
Too much, too fast; he downs another bourbon or three
Now he’s talking a little loudly, slightly slurring his speech
He’s ranting - a sermon to preach. His wife is embarrassed.
He’s growing argumentative, picking fights with her parents
She wants to go home. He says his stomach is sick
Then vomits his potato salad all over one of the kids
5 months ago…
His wife is on night shift.
He settles into an armchair with a peaty ten year old sidekick
He likes this; alone with his drink without her scorning
No lecture about she’s growing concerned and this is a warning
Two in the morning, the bottle’s empty. It’s OK, he’ll sip on some beers
He opens the fridge to find them and - SHIT! All six disappeared
That fucking bitch interfered! He turns the house upside down, panicked
Not a fucking drop in sight. He’s growing desperate now. Manic.
He grabs his keys and heads out. Finds a bar to ease this ripe concern
…Leaving his 10 month old son alone in the house until his wife returns
She tells him it’s over. He packs up his life reluctantly
He stays on a buddy’s couch a while. Vodka and sprite for company
… He doesn’t fight for custody
5 days ago…
The diagnosis was delivered after a bevy of scans
Cirrhosis of the liver. Irreparable. Very advanced.
The prognosis was the kicker. They gave him a couple of years
And less… much less, if he wouldn’t ease up on the beers
But his only means of coping is a bottle driven stupor
Every sober thought he has feels like an obstinate intruder
Two days and he’s back to drinking. He marks himself a loser
Scared and seeking solace in the arms of his abuser
Now…
The carpet is sticky.
A teal and mustard atrocity straight from the heart of the sixties.
He stumbles out of the men’s room, smelling of vomit and whiskey.
Dark ringed and misty, his eyes meet the barman’s. He orders a gin.
He’ll cut this one with tonic then go back to the hard stuff again.
A quarter to ten in the morning, no calling into work anymore.
Not today, or tomorrow, or however long eternity’s for.
The certainty’s more of a comfort now, knowing this all will pass.
He watches his hand as it reaches, trembling, towards his glass.
Expediting his exit from this existence he aimlessly nurtured
Passing what’s left of his life as a passive, sedated observer
Week 6 vs Adverse & Eviction
Topic: Provincial
I made my way down cobblestone streets at dawn, bow in hand
The cold and damp of night yielding to the morning sun’s slow advance
Peaking over thatched roofs and stretching beyond to the whole expanse
of the surrounding wooded hillside, dappled green and gold and tan.
I walked briskly towards it, boarskin quiver slung across my shoulder
Hopping fallen trees as I went and scrambling up moss lined boulders
My thoughts quite bolstered - I saw in the mud a cloven impression
Deer print. Potently fresh and heading upwind in a loping procession
I crept past the oaks and the chestnut trees. Feeling focussed, expectant
Assured, but under no misconception, - one faux pas and the moment was ended
I spied the velvety crown of the stag and closed in to close its existence
Waiting for the right moment, I drew - held the bow string in tension
The beast turned, exposing its chest. I saw my chance as it froze for a second
I smiled sadly, mouthed au revoir… and slowly lowered the weapon.
It would have been too easy. Unbecoming of my skill and my talent
Truthfully, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt the thrill of a challenge
I thought myself chivalrous, gallant. My walls were adorned with antlers
All I really hunted for now was the solace of the forest’s grandeur
I followed the river home, observing how its course meandered
Contemplating my own path and, as always, landing short of answers.
I kept my burdens buried below a veneer of boorish banter
All the village saw was the image of the hardened ex war commander
A hero. Adored and pampered. Surrounded by obsequious yes men
Too meek to breathe their dissentions - I was never disagreed with or questioned
You see how conceitedness sets in… but my status came at a cost
My identity and agency lost in desperation to maintain the facade
I hid my insecurities beneath a towering mass of muscle
Drifting without purpose through this town and its vapid bustle
That was, until the day that a stagecoach pulled into view
And the love of my life stepped out in her tunic of cerulean blue
A delicate face framed by tousled tresses, brunette in hue
With deep and dazzling eyes. I bet her name was Beautiful too…
Now, I’d been with a floozy or two. They were easy game if I’m honest
With my station and frame like Adonis I’d had any dame that I’d wanted
But it was clear as soon as I saw her she wasn’t some everyday broad
She was gorgeous, no question she was. But something more.. a je ne sais quoi
And when I heard her singing… well, of course I was hypnotised
She sang of wanting - more than a simple life, in that haunting chorus she improvised
I sauntered across the square to woo this magnificent creature
Brandishing a smile and a bouquet of hibiscus to greet her
I oozed my usual charm that left women a-quiver and eager
So imagine then my shock at her cool and indifferent demeanor…
Between agitation and elation, I smiled a wolfish grin as I teetered
Knowing this challenge to win her would only make the victory sweeter
Weeks passed. My passions didn’t. I stayed transfixed in her features
Burning for her… a sickness… I was held in the grip of its fever
So when she fell for another, I felt anger throb in my veins
And the fog of my rage grew thicker when I learned of his monsterous ways
I’d wanted to capture her, yes… but he had literally locked her away
And she now claimed to love him?! An obvious case of Stockholm’s at play..
I couldn’t abide this. I rallied some sidekicks, forceful with discourse
A quick march through the forest and we arrived with torches and pitchforks
I kicked the doors in, storming on inwards, straight up the flights of stairs
Up to the snowcapped rooftop… he was ready to fight me there
I drew my dagger against this animal. He snarled through crooked teeth
I leapt in determined - tomorrow was something he wouldn’t see
But in my haste, I slipped. Tumbled from the roof, mortally undignified
And as I fell to my death, in my head I heard her warbling a single line
Heard echoes of that siren’s song, that chorus that she’d improvised…
Heard Belle as she sang it - there must be more than this provincial life
Then I heard no more.
- Gaston
Week 7 vs Master Rock
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Week 11 vs dead man
Marco trembled in fear as they lowered him into the grave
He imagined the stench of decay, - all around him, inches away
Fighting down panic, he gazed at the minister’s wrinkled old face
Unblinking and staid as the others as he sprinkled his incense and prayed
I’ll see you again. I promise. Wincing, he remembered the day
The sound of her choking sobs, prying tiny fingers away
I promise. One way or another. For months, his singular aim
Fuelled by white hot, lingering pain. Was it really ending this way?
Fevered words poured out of him, - every line he could think of to say
Knowing it didn’t matter; he had a debt he couldn’t begin to repay…
.
.
.
The dry summer air was infused with the smell of citrus
Maria wore a frown of concentration he’d seldom witnessed
As she carefully pulled the sapling from its pot and teased the roots
The method that he’d shown her that she faithfully reproduced
“Soon we’ll see the fruit” she said with the confidence and ease of youth
Setting the tree into the hole and replacing the soil that had been removed
They sat a while then. A gentle breeze tempering the heat of June
“I wish Mama was here.”
“Yes”, he agreed, “me too.”
They arrested him at work. Covered the exits and entered at the rear
Sporting ICE windbreakers and contemptuous sneers
The thin veneer of judicial review only bought him a matter of days
A final chance to hug his daughter before they snatched it away
Back across the border, he fought the urge to collapse into grief
He found a smuggler who could take him back – for a staggering fee
More than he could beg or borrow from his entire family tree
If he worked and saved for years he still couldn’t manage the feat
He did the only thing he could; became a dealer, started to sell
Amazing what desperation does to morals you thought that you held
It still wasn’t enough. He needed the money to develop quickly
He found a back-room poker game. It was that, or sell a kidney
Besides, he was good at cards - he had that sort of a mind
Or so he thought, before he lost it all with a full house against four of a kind
Months of work, gone in an instant. He was filled with anxiety, dread
He found a church on the edge of town, sat alone, and quietly wept
pours his heart out to the priest
Priest takes pity on him
Church’s cemetary has a special grave that connects to a smuggling tunnel *surprised pikachu face*
“Sent to the other side” wordplay
Priest says a prayer to send him off, Marco says a bunch of thankyous
Adios
Week 12 vs Soule']
She saw him across the bar. His stare was persistant, hard-eyed.
Tall, and lightly muscled. A hint of stubble on a chiselled jawline.
His smile was… disarming. She wasn’t used to that kind of attention.
A little chubby and kinda frumpy looking, she’d never liked her reflection.
And yet he was smiling at her. She smiled back - uncomfortably, thinly.
He sauntered across the room and stood in front of her, grinning.
He spoke. Was it something in Hindi? She hadn’t heard the language in years.
Her parents had never taught it to her (just as her grandmother feared).
“Sorry, I don’t understand,” she mumbled. Her gaze was avoidant.
“I asked you what your name was,” he said, with a trace of annoyance.
“Oh... I’m Sue.” She forced herself to look up from the floorboards.
“Hmm. That can’t be your real name. I bet there’s something that’s short for.”
“I - yes, it’s short for Sujata”. He looked satisfied. “That’s no wonder -
I knew you had to be Indian with that skin tone and bone structure.”
She laughed nervously. He looked her up and down with a bold hunger.
“I’ll get you this drink, Sujata,” he winked, “you can get me your phone number.”
She sipped what he ordered her. Feeling awkward and somewhat uncertain.
He boasted about being in med school, on his way to becoming a surgeon.
“You’d look so sexy in a sari,” he told her, “just utterly perfect.”
He slid a hand around her waist. “I bet you must be a virgin.
That’s why I like Indian girls. Western women are fucking perverted.”
She wasn’t sure how to feel as he delivered this smug little sermon.
It was true, - she had no experience, but it wasn’t like she hadn’t wanted it.
Wasn’t like she didn’t fantasize about her bed having added occupants.
And so, despite her misgivings, and the brashness of his ‘compliments’,
when he asked if she’d go home with him she gladly went along with it.
A short walk later, they arrived at his faded weatherboard.
Red light spilled onto the street as they entered through the heavy door.
He rolled up his sleeves, drew the curtains and snibbed the door locks.
Tattoos of Sanskrit lettering adorned the pale skin of his forearms.
On every inch of the four walls hung Hindu artwork in wooden frames.
The air was thick with incense, and another scent that she couldn’t place…
Her eyes roamed the room, paused on a bronze-tinted effigy.
She recognised the goddess Durga. Ten arms, all holding weaponry.
“Isn’t she beautiful?” he asked, his voice dripping awe and respect.
She thought its expression was horrible, but politely nodded assent.
“You want to see my shrine? I haven’t made today’s offering yet.”
His eyes were alive with excitement, looking almost possessed.
“… sure,” she replied, ever cautious of causing offence.
She followed him to a red door, down the hall to the left.
Producing a key, he unlocked it. She noticed a droplet of sweat.
His voice was a high-pitched whisper, - “OK… go on in ahead.”
She entered the room, and froze. Felt the jolt of shock and distress.
Saw something resembling a woman. Surgically altered – grotesque.
Heard its agonised, faltering breath. The sound of its distressed moans.
Saw the additional brown-skinned limbs, sown, from armpits down to hipbones.
Comprehesion hit home. Her heart skipped a beat in her chest.
Five arms on the creature’s right side… and only three on the left…
She opened her mouth to scream. Felt a rapid, aggressive embrace.
Caught the acrid scent of chemicals as a rag was pressed to her f-
Week 13 vs Eviction
Fiery red head. You know that you want it
I look cheap but like I could burn a hole in your pocket
Take me out, touch my box, I’ll do whatever you ask
Show me that rough side, that’s where the chemistry’s at
Run your fingers down my body, pinch me, steady your grasp
Strike me. Over and over, until you get a reaction. Fuck
I’m burning for you. Losing my head in a flash
Breathe me in as you hold me and take your pleasure at last
But then it’s over…
And I know, - that moment never could last
Turn everything I touch into dust and embers and ash
So. You wave me out. A cold show of dismissiveness
I’m curled up, fragile. You’re there smoking your cigarette
Nothing more to give you. Used. I’m powerless now
It’s only a matter of time before you throw me out of the house
The flame may be finished, but killing the phantom is hard
Close your eyes and I bet you still see me dance in the dark
And I know when you look back, you’ll have a new attitude
You’ll see what you had in me;
That I was a Match for you
Week 14 vs Sinacog
1
You wake up in a strange room, no memory of how you arrived
The door & window are locked. No-one answers your shouts and your cries
There’s a pot of tea on the windowsill. Next to it, a pair of glasses
Plants and flowers everywhere, - some c.acti and arid grasses
You notice some shelving above you. Some post-its on the wall
There’s something written on them but you can’t make out the scrawl
What is all this? You wonder. Is it all some optical ruse?
You’re determined to find out. The question is… what do you do?
See what’s on the shelves – go to verse 15
Try on the glasses – go to verse 5
Drink the tea – go to verse 10
2
You see your hands tremble as you drip the sap on the picture
Hoping the c.actus’s liquid is some kind of magic elixir
The book glows, then intensifies into a blinding, dazzling light
There’s a deafening roar… you hear a c.ackle, a CRACK, then a silence
A sudden weight in your hand. You look down at a magical sight
The golden pommel, the jewlled hilt… ‘Excalibur’ scratched on the side
You’ve done it! You summoned the sword, just as the post-it said
Now to turn your attention to those other notes your read…
Drink the tea & eat the flowers – go to verse 3
Shout out “Eyjeyissagod” – go to verse 7
3
This option was appealing. You’re hungry, and thirsty too
But… Does the order matter? Which one should you first consume?
Eat the flowers – go to verse 6
Drink the tea – go to verse 10
4
In your hands you twirl the frisbee. The pattern is hypnotic
You can’t seem to look away…. it spins faster and faster, robotic
You hear a voice in your head, posing a puzzle of logic:
I AM NOTHING AND SOMETHING... The tone is almost demonic
I AM NOTHING AND SOMETHING, it repeats... What does it mean?!
It’s a riddle without an answer… “Impossible!!!” you scream
I AM NOTHING AND SOMETHING - now less talking than taunting
You’re paralysed, despairing at this great philosophical quandary
I AM NOTHING AND SOMETHING. Over and over, over again
You scream. This really wasn’t the way that you hoped it would end.
5
A lighthearted distraction while the gods are deciding your fate
You’ll die here or be rescued - might as well look fly while you wait
You don the glasses, check the mirror… forget for one long minute
You flatter yourself a little thinking you look like a young John Lennon
But as you turn away, you shout with glee at the spectacle -
It seems those sweet little spectacles make the post-its easily legible!
“A sappy sacrifice supplies the sword”, you read, still short of answers
On the next note, “Eyjeyissagod” … could this be some sort of password?
“It drinks the tea, it eats the flowers”, the final note instructs
Now… decide your course, cross your heart and hope for luck
Drink the tea & eat the flowers – go to verse 3
Shout out “Eyjeyissagod” – go to verse 12
See what’s on the shelves – go to verse 11
6
The flowers were beautiful.
You should have known to ONLY DEVOUR THE SUITABLE.
Now after hours of puking you’ll die howling, delusional.
7
“Eyjeyissagod!”
Your mouth tingles and warms as soon as you utter the word
The sensation fades quickly but leaves you somewhat disturbed
You hear a sudden, primal screech. You turn to the window to see
A flap of wings. The glass shatters. You get a glimpse of some teeth
The side of the building groans under the weight of its giant claws
Shimmering crimson scales reflect the pale light of the dawn
Afraid and yet awed, you hold your blade in your palm, considering
Should you attempt to slay the dragon, or bow before it quivering?
Attack – go to verse 14
Bow – go to verse 16
8
You cut yourself with the c.actus and stain the image with blood
Holding your breath, you wait… you hear a sinister buzz
The book glows, then intensifies into a blinding, dazzling light
There’s a deafening roar… you hear a c.ackle, a CRACK, then a silence
A sudden pain in your chest. You look down and gasp at the sight
The golden pommel, the jewlled hilt… ‘Excalibur’ scratched on the side
The blood is warm on your body as it gushes from the wound
Then suddenly, you’re cold… Your suffering is through.
9
Amongst the books you spy a classic: The Legend Of Arthur
There’s an illustration of a sword and… the word “BLOOD”, written in marker
Is this calling for a sacrifice? You wonder with a shiver
You search the room, looking for a knife or something like scissors
There’s nothing of the sort, but one thing does look sharp
The c.actus’s thorns are beckoning, - all you’ll need is one good barb
Poised to prick your thumb pad, you hesistate. Do you want to do this?
Maybe just wait for rescue, drink some tea… Would that be foolish?
Blood sacrifice – go to verse 8
Wait and drink tea – go to verse 10
10
The tea is demon semen.
Satan appears before you in the form of a Greek policeman
OPAAAA. YOU TAKE MY SEMEN. NOW MUST MAKE EVEN-STEVENS.
I SUCKA YOU DICK… You nod in meek agreement
It’s amazing. It’s too good. You can’t believe it, even.
Your mind explodes and you die, still tasting that sweet secretion
11
On the shelves you find a frisbee and a couple of dusty tomes
Observing the former closely, you think you see it subtly glow
It seems to be… calling to you…. you have an urge to twirl it
Should you go along with this impulse? Or not? What’s the verdict?
Twirl the frisbee – go to verse 4
Read the books – go to verse 13
12
“Eyjeyissagod!”
Your mouth tingles and warms as soon as you utter the word
The sensation grows stronger… you scream; suffering, burning
And as the flames engulf you, you hear a voice in your head
“…UNWORTHY…”, it whispers… you should’ve made other choices instead…
13
Amongst the books you spy a classic: The Legend Of Arthur
There’s an illustration of a sword and… the word “BLOOD”, written in marker
Is this calling for a sacrifice? You wonder with a shiver
You search the room, looking for a knife or something like scissors
There’s nothing of the sort, but one thing does look sharp
The c.actus’s thorns are beckoning, - all you’ll need is one good barb
Poised to prick your thumbpad, you stop and think, do you really HAVE to?
Does it have to be YOUR blood? Maybe you could use the plant juice?
Would the book even know? You ponder this all for a minute
Then nod sharply, committed. You’ve made your call, your decision:
Use your blood – go to verse 8
Use the c.actus juice – go to verse 2
14
It’s over in seconds…
Before you even move, the dragon knows your intentions.
You hear a monsterous roar the instant you go for your weapon.
Feel the furnace blast of its breath. Burning, - ashes and flesh
“PATHETIC MORTAL.” you hear, then jerk and collapse into death
15
On the shelves you find a frisbee and a couple of dusty tomes
Observing the former closely, you think you see it subtly glow
It seems to be… calling to you…. you have an urge to twirl it
Should you go along with this impulse? Or not? What’s the verdict?
Twirl the frisbee – go to verse 4
Read the books – go to verse 9
16
Gripping your sword, you kneel. Seconds seem an eternity
Afraid to look up, you wait… until you hear a voice, internally
ARISE.
You stand up shakily and lock eyes with the powerful beast
SUSTENANCE. It commands you… You offer the flowers and tea
It seems to work… ! You feel your grip on the sword relax
COME. YOU ARE WORTHY. The dragon gestures towards its back
Climbing aboard, you feel strange… more confident and light
You take two steps to the window and launch into the skies
Below you, only insignificant mortals in their T shirts
Leathery wings beat upwards. You soar into the ether.
Blood and fire and steel. You understand your immortal truth
You are the sword and the dragon. The dragon and sword are you.
Playoffs Round 1 vs Mike Wrecka
Once upon an evening eerie, when the sky was bleak and bleary
and I sipped some cheap and cheery comfort from the bottom shelf
Taking a toke of tobacco, suddenly I saw a shadow
cast there over the piano and my silhouetted self
“It’s the maplewood,” I muttered, glancing out to where it dwelled
“only that, and nothing else”
In such detail I recall it – it was past the prime of fall and
every tree that lined my lawn had lost its lustrous leafy shell
I sat alone then, grim and grieving, drinking well into the evening
drinking deep to cease the screaming, screaming in my head for Elle
For that sorry, sultry siren that I thought I’d loved so well
A conviction now dispelled
And the weight of what had happened in my burning, brainless passion
killed me – filled me with a sort of sadness I had never felt
So that now this outlined figure on my wall that faintly flickered
seeming only to grow bigger fanned the fires of my hell
“it’s the maplewood,” I echoed, drawing shades to break its spell
… and yet still the shadow fell
Feeling now my heart beat faster, I stood searching for the master
of this spectre on my plaster born of shade that I beheld
And on noticing its placement, I turned hastily, impatient
to the room that stood adjacent where I’d hung a head of elk
“just the antlers,” I sighed, then closed the door to break their spell
… but yet still the shadow fell
Finding neither rhyme nor reason, my assuredness did weaken
and the silence seemed to deepen as the fear within me swelled
For the foul, fantastic monster my imagination conjured
looming larger, fiercer, stronger, grew impossible to quell
And the phantom’s form felt foreign as of from another realm
yet… familiar as well
“Is it you?” I whispered softly, fearing something there ungodly
like some spirit sent to haunt me from the deepest depths of hell
But the shade seemed not to hear me, though I voiced again my query
so, succinctly and sincerely, I then simply asked it - “… Elle?”
This I asked, and heard my voice repeating back the name of “Elle!”
Only echoes, nothing else
Now I lost all my composure, - struck the wall, and shrieked for closure
Struck it over and then over with what strength I could compel
Fists so frenzied and ferocious, in the grip of a psychosis
and the beat of every blow was like the sounding of a knell
… like the beat of bloody blows with which I’d beat the life from Elle
Faithless bitch. I’d loved her well
And the shadow, so incessant, still is present, still is present
like a token of the essence that malevolence befell
And so far beyond redeeming, there my soul continues screaming
‘neath that shadow with its meaning as to mark me as its whelp
As the vile, abhorrent monster that no mortal man can help
This I am, and nothing else.