Razor Sharp.
In their Clarence Darrow clothes.
Guilty was their game.
Turn and Fire on the Count of One.
Did you do it?
No.
Are you certain?
No.
Darkness at dawn.
The cell is as hot as the Devil’s Coat.
Down the hall.
Old Sparky.
Licking his chops.
Hissing.
Throbbing with Juice.
Did you do it?
Yes.
Are you certain.
Yes.
I roll up my mattress.
Wait for the tray.
Eggs.
In the shape of a noose.
A turd on the edge of the plate.
First published by Synchronized Chaos
Tastes like chicken but like everything else it’s not. The liver is Nagasaki. The lungs Hiroshima or Jesse James and Dear Old Death comes to us all but the quiver is fantastic. Like lips full of bees.
Sidemen crouch in stairwells. Waiting to make their move. Microphones hiss. Like snakes on the take. Parker crushes his smoke and Raises the Horn. This is a Gig Baby and the liquor is Top Shelf. Remem
The house smells of apples and hard cold water. Your dog whimpers in her dream chair. Rabbits pouring out of countless bushes. Easy pickings when you are still. Outside there are stars. Cold and brigh