Where The Hell Does It Come From? Lines From A Dark Mind

 

Sometimes, out of nowhere, not really thinking of anything, a line, or, an image

pops in my mind. Fucked if I know where it comes from. It’s usually twisted,

usually sick, always disturbing.

More often than not, it appears when I am driving home from work. It takes me 40

minutes. The drive is usually on dark roads, and there is hardly any traffic. The

radio is on, but, I’m not listening. I have it on for the noise. Windows down, high

beams on, speed 60mph, zoned out from the familiarity, bored…

Then, BAM!

Some dark matter enters my brain. I’m not consciously thinking of anything, I’m not

thinking to be honest. It’s the same drive every night. The same fucking drive. That

sameness will be the death of me one of these days when I’ll notice a deer 

crossing the road  a few seconds too late.

Anyway, something dark, and disturbing enters my noggin.

Like this, for example.

 “Sally! Would you please, puhleezz stop playing with Granddad’s penis!”

“But, Mom, I like flopping it around, and I think he likes it, I really do.”

“How would you know, he’s in a fucking coma for chrissakes!”

“Well,look, he’s growing…’

“What?…WHAT?”

Suddenly, the woman gets up off the chair by the bed, stands over her Father, who’s

laying so still it’s as if he’s practicing death, and slaps him hard in the face.

“You sick bastard!” she sobs.

I wish I knew where that comes from, so’s I could shut it off. Have something nice

materialize in me head, like fluffy bunnies, cute cuddly teddy bears, unicorns,

double rainbows, grumpy cats playing the piano while an adorable mutt chases its

tail, as a beautiful baby coos and claps its hands in sheer delight…

Or…maybe not..all that stuff would make me puke.

“Daddy! Daddy, wake up! Daddy!”

“Uh, huh? Um, what time is it? Christ, my head. What is it, son?”

“My butt hurts, Daddy. It really hurts!”

“Aw, Jesus, sorry son, I was drunk. Wrong room.”

See what I mean?

 

What’s The Point?

What’s The Point?

I wish I could take some pills and whiskey
And lay down on the sack
But, there’s a large yellow line
Running down my back
I’m a coward, a wimp, a craven
John Wayne I am not
More like a sniveling runt
Pissing in his cot
Oh, to put a rope ’round my neck
choke the dreariness out of me
Or, put a gun in my mouth
And blow out all the misery
What’s the point of living
If your miserable all the time?
Slashing my wrists, bleeding out
Is unjustly considered a crime
But, I would fuck it up, you see,
As I normally do in life
I’d drink myself into a coma,
And put stress upon my wife
I know she loves me, and I love her,
But, life’s a sham, a fake
Unless you’re rich and powerful
Life’s not a piece of cake
I’m full of rage, and hopelessness
I’m living in a rut
I see evil everywhere
I feel resentment in my gut
Where is all the good in the world?
Where is all the joy?
All I see is damp and gray,
Decay, destruction, destroy
I am at the end of my tether
At the end of the rope
I see the end of the tunnel
I don’t see any hope
There’s only darkness there
No light, no other side
That suits me plenty
Cos who’d like a suicide?
I’d be damned to a living hell
Like being back in this Earth
And I would scream, stomp my feet,
And, curse at my rebirth
I would holler loudly
And grind my teeth in rage
And I would figure out
A way to disengage
I would kill myself again,
And again, Each every night
Knowing that one day
I would get it right

What I’m Thinking As I Make Mad Passionate Love To My Wife

Christ, we’ve let ourselves go. We’re collecting folds where no fold should form. Did I unplug the coffee maker? Why’s her tits floppin’ that weird way? Isn’t it against the laws of physics?

Oops, she’s looking at me funny. Do I have that far away look again? Say something. Quick!

“Oh, baby, love you, baby. You’re so hot!”

Phew, she’s back into it. Though, truth be told, she’s hotter than day old piss in the North Pole. Somewhere right now somebody’s doing it for the first time.  Enjoyin’ the hell out of it. Try being married 20 years. Jeez, it’s a chore. Not that I’ll tell Nancy that. She’ll be all oh you don’t love me anymore, and I sure as shit don’t need that row thank you very much.

Let’s see, tap in bathrooms leaking, the furnace is making funny noises, have to get that seen to, is the truck due an oil change? Saw that pretty new neighbor today. Man, what a body, if-eh-stop- think of that near the end. The Shield ended in a satisfying way. Vic, you murdering, robbing, lying sonofabitch, you sure got the most righteous comeuppance. Shane, oh my, your downward spiral, and desperation broke my heart, Ronnie my boy, you can’t trust anyone. What a great show.

What was that problem Sam wanted solved in his homework? Train A traveling 60 miles per hour, leaves Elyria heading towards Manchester, 200 miles away. The same time Train B traveling 70 miles per hour, leaves Manchester toward Elyria. When do the two trains meet?

“Turn over, honey”

Oh, that reminds me, I have to get some cheese at the store. Okay, huh, what’s the formula for that? Distance divided by Rate equals time? 60 plus 70 equals 130 miles, so 200 divided by 130 equals what 1.5 thereabouts? answer one and a half hours. Ha! Still got it.

Oh, time to think of the little blonde two doors down. What a body, Like Nancy’s when we where married. Tight, supple, and so sexy. Those short, shorts she was wearing the other day. My! Oh MY! Cameltoe-she-

” Wow! That was nice honey. Thank you!.”

Finally, now I can go to sleep…

Something Memorable

Something Memorable by William Morgan

“It’s not working.”

He saw it wasn’t. He was nervous because he had been warned that failure meant death.

“Keeps ripping, see? Tears right through. No support-“

He couldn’t sleep. Nightmares plagued him. Not of his death, but of the shame of failing.

“Try lower.”

A scream, piteous, pleading.

“Look, no ripping, no tearing! I think we’ve done it!”

Relieved he marched off to his commander. “Sir! I know you wanted something memorable. Unfortunately the nails through the palm won’t work. Too fleshy, sir. Nails rip through. But, nail the wrists, and the ankles, and you’ll have a very special crucifixion.”

There Was An Old Woman

There was an old woman
Who lived in a shoe
Who had no money
Nothing to do
So she fostered some kids
lent them out for some fun
Her purse was now full
Practically weighs a ton
One boy fought back
Told the welfare man
Who proceeded to molest him
In the back of his van
The boy raged and hollered
But, it fell on deaf ears
He felt so alone
Held back his tears
One night, in darkness
A thought popped in his head
The only way to end this
Is if she were dead
So, hammer in hand
He crept into her room
Whacked her on the head
She screamed in her doom
She stared at the boy
With blood in her eye
He hit her again
But she would not die
She laughed, and giggled
Go! Hit me again!
The boy sputtered and frothed
Said something profane
He hit her thrice more
While uttering a curse
Then he cut her in pieces
And filled up her purse

Animal Lover

Animal Lover,
by,
William Morgan

     I am an animal lover. Sort of. I go to the local shelter, adopt a puppy, dog, or cat. They live with me for a week. For

the whole week the animal is treated like royalty. Pampered, loved, fed only the best food, bathed in luxurious soaps,

shown nothing but kindness. They have a wonderful, abuse free time.

After a week, a .22 behind the ear. Euthanasia at it’s most merciful.

There’s just too many unwanted pets, and I certainly don’t have the time to take care of all of them. So, I do what I do.

It’s better than doing nothing, and at least the animal is living the dream, albeit short term.

I know, it sounds pretty bad, but consider this, my Facebook pal Jeremy is concerned about so many unwanted babies….

Knock! Knock!

Knock! Knock!


“Who’s there?”


Knock! Knock!


“Who’s there?”


Knock! Knock!

I said, WHO’S THERE? Ah, fer cryin’ out-oh, there you are, well, ain’t ya gonna say somethin’? Everyone’s waitin’ for your line so I can give the witty reply. Cat got your tongue, or summit? Oh- I see-well, that’s royally fucked that up, hasn’t it? Goddamn cat. Any good at mime? No? Can you write? Jesus, didn’t you go to school? No? Why? Oh, that’s right, the cat. Dammit, how about you go get your brother, then. He’s got a tongue in his head, doesn’t he? Good, go get him. I’ll wait here.”

Knock! Knock!


“Who’s there?”


Knock! Knock!


” WHO’S THERE!”


Knock! Knock!

 

Jesus, not again! Aw, c’mon, not you, too. Where’s that damn cat?”

 

” What?”


“Oh, you speak! Yes! Okay! Gimme the line. Quick!”


“What?”


“I said, gimme the fuckin’ line!”


“What?”

 

Are you deaf, or someth-ah, bollocks, you’re fuckin’ deaf. Can’t hear? CAN’T HEAR! Hey, you, doesn’t he hear? No? Christ, he talks, though? Well, good, can you do that sign language thing? Better! Tell him to give me the line, Tell him I said who’s there?”


“I’m deaf, I didn’t hear the line spoken.”


“Fuck off, the both of you!”


“My sister speaks, and hears!”

 

Third times the charm, then. Okay, sign your brother to go get her. Take this bat, you see a cat, whack the bastard.”


Knock! Knock!


“Who’s there!”


“Iohanna!”


“Iohanna, who?”


“Iohanna, posuit in vestri INTERULUS venit pater!”


“Ah, no. No. No! Sigh. Go ahead, tell me. Sign him to tell me, okay? Sign him for fuck’s sake!”


“She fell on her head when she was a baby, she only speaks Latin.”


“Go away. Just-just go away. I’m just gonna go drink myself into a stupor. Go on, away with you.”


Knock! Knock!


Fuck OFF!”

Harvester of Sorrow

Harvester of Sorrow,
by,
William Morgan

      She sat by the small coffin, head in hands, weeping. I coughed. Her head lifted, showing me her heartache.
      “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
      “My Paul was such a beautiful boy. He was climbing the tree. He fell…”
      She shrieked. Pulled her hair.
      I placed my hand upon her head. She stiffened, then a smile appeared. Her eyes rolled back, she slumped, grinning.
     I was filled momentarily with melancholy until my soul absorbed her sorrow. It was leaden with grief and loss.
     I scratched off Patterson in the obituaries, headed over to Pulaski’s, four lost to a fire.

 

The End

The End,
by,
William Morgan

      I open my eyes to darkness. Above, I hear muted sounds of screaming, anguished cries, terror

inducing roars of rage. I smell burning flesh.

My nails frantically scratch, gouge the coffin lid. My strength is not my own.

FIGHT! SMITE THEM WHERE THEY STAND!”

Instinctively, I know it is the voice of God.

Armageddon.

The End.

TO WAR, MY FALLEN WARRIORS! TO WAR! KILL! DESTROY THE RIGHTEOUS!” Lucifer bellows with

arrogance.

More piteous screams. A whoomf! of conflagration. The stench of slaughter saturates my nostrils.

I cease my endeavor to escape.

Lay back.

Wait.

And see who prevails.

 

 

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