Stay Down In The Hole
Long time coming.
Wall fell down.
Well has been poisoned.
Cats are in the bag.
But if you’ve been keeping up, you already know all of this.
I remember when Hell was cold and quiet, not full of young ghosts, rubbing their tits on any devil with ties to the blues community.
What a fucking scene.
Then it got hot and dark – that’s fine, for a while, but then someone busts in and flicks the light switch. No one is beautiful at four in the morning, especially in a bathroom stall under flickering glass tubes, make up smeared and gag reflex kicking in.
I tell them that I’m in love, nonetheless.
I’m a fabulous liar.
But it’s easier when they can’t look you in the eyes.
Buy two patches and stay ghost.
Get back to that silent ice box.
Stygian and still.
Chasms where the beasts loiter, cards on the table and bottles of cheap liquor spilling in gutters, roaches getting drunk too.
But everyone whispers.
Echoes of that now.
Savage nostalgia cannibals gnawing out the long intestine, stuff it with offal and make a real meal of us.
Candy cane legs running across the ceiling in stilettos.
I was going to grow up and be a dancer.
Everything dies, given time.
They’re handing out time like it was about to go out of style.
Gas light and good plumbing, that’s all we really need.
Put beer cans in a bucket of water on the front porch and they’re good to go in the morning.
Drink whiskey from crooked stills when the sun sets.
Night falls early in kind towns, falls fast and heavy when you crawl down far enough.
A long way to go.
New Hell is sun up, pants down around ankles and thrown from a slow moving car.
Roll down a hill and wind up in a rose bush.
I first met the wolf there.
It was 1985.
It was also 1767.
This hole is a special kind of wonderful.