Is That You? You Asked
By George Sparling
Yeah, Jasper, me. How you found my email address was pure luck. We ain’t schoolboys now, I have to squelch homicidal lineaments these days. Still tormenting me, you who thrust a beam at me in that flimsy but iconic cabin we vandalized on church property, a summertime retreat, jamming my head, blood seeping into my eyes as I stumbled around like a zombie. You laughed, calling me a liar, it wasn’t blood, fool, you said, but your imagination run amok. I wanted to pick up an arm of a chair I’d busted up, hitting you in the face, making sure I struck you with the nail-end of the clobbering tool.
But I was passive, as I try to be these days, and decided to smash windows instead, taking the coward’s way out rather than confront the bully you always were. Maybe I was more civilized, more in touch with the astral plane, that lofty stream where vigilance turns into romantic madness but never screeching psychosis, you only crawling along a dirty access road.
I bandana-ed my wound, using the cleanest linen towel I found in a holy of holy drawer, beneath a couple of pre-Victoria’s Secrets girdles. You laughed, telling me I knew nothing about hygiene, that I needed a course in first aid, that I was lucky to have reached Boy Scout First Class. You said, I’m an Eagle Scout, or hasn’t your pea-brain registered that yet. I then wished to have had the foresight before our destruction quest, taking a crowbar from Dad’s workshop, then lacerating you until I saw nothing but a mashed, pulpy slobber puss, ooze blubbering down your so-called high IQ/moneyed face. I wanted to get to the illogical but necessary phase, becoming an arsonist, torching that country club in which you and your family belong, its loutish walls, its bunker-like, soundproof, scheming diners disappearing in flames. But, then, you’d accuse me of being as stupid as that setup in ’33 Berlin, accusing a mentally deficient guy of setting the Reichstag ablaze, I then returning the compliment, screaming, you Nazi devil, I knew I should’ve delivered that armrest’s rusty nail straighter, driven it deeper into your brain. Then, my catastrophic life would’ve transformed me into a perfect artist for these times when schmucks like you die between walls of fungus and mold of that getaway Christian hideout, dust exploding through air as your soul tries escaping, but before it does, I take out my Zippo lighter, sparking your fleshlessness and poof, you are the nothing I always knew you were deep inside.
Die, punk, die, I wrote, bouncing back your email.
- - -
I've been published in many literary magazines including Underground Voices, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot and Juked. I like Tom Waits, soot dancing in the air, ginseng tea and receiving mail.
By George Sparling
Yeah, Jasper, me. How you found my email address was pure luck. We ain’t schoolboys now, I have to squelch homicidal lineaments these days. Still tormenting me, you who thrust a beam at me in that flimsy but iconic cabin we vandalized on church property, a summertime retreat, jamming my head, blood seeping into my eyes as I stumbled around like a zombie. You laughed, calling me a liar, it wasn’t blood, fool, you said, but your imagination run amok. I wanted to pick up an arm of a chair I’d busted up, hitting you in the face, making sure I struck you with the nail-end of the clobbering tool.
But I was passive, as I try to be these days, and decided to smash windows instead, taking the coward’s way out rather than confront the bully you always were. Maybe I was more civilized, more in touch with the astral plane, that lofty stream where vigilance turns into romantic madness but never screeching psychosis, you only crawling along a dirty access road.
I bandana-ed my wound, using the cleanest linen towel I found in a holy of holy drawer, beneath a couple of pre-Victoria’s Secrets girdles. You laughed, telling me I knew nothing about hygiene, that I needed a course in first aid, that I was lucky to have reached Boy Scout First Class. You said, I’m an Eagle Scout, or hasn’t your pea-brain registered that yet. I then wished to have had the foresight before our destruction quest, taking a crowbar from Dad’s workshop, then lacerating you until I saw nothing but a mashed, pulpy slobber puss, ooze blubbering down your so-called high IQ/moneyed face. I wanted to get to the illogical but necessary phase, becoming an arsonist, torching that country club in which you and your family belong, its loutish walls, its bunker-like, soundproof, scheming diners disappearing in flames. But, then, you’d accuse me of being as stupid as that setup in ’33 Berlin, accusing a mentally deficient guy of setting the Reichstag ablaze, I then returning the compliment, screaming, you Nazi devil, I knew I should’ve delivered that armrest’s rusty nail straighter, driven it deeper into your brain. Then, my catastrophic life would’ve transformed me into a perfect artist for these times when schmucks like you die between walls of fungus and mold of that getaway Christian hideout, dust exploding through air as your soul tries escaping, but before it does, I take out my Zippo lighter, sparking your fleshlessness and poof, you are the nothing I always knew you were deep inside.
Die, punk, die, I wrote, bouncing back your email.
- - -
I've been published in many literary magazines including Underground Voices, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot and Juked. I like Tom Waits, soot dancing in the air, ginseng tea and receiving mail.
0 Responses
Post a Comment
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
