My house is haunted by a demonic talking skull
but no one believes me
because it’s wrapped in human flesh and technically we’re dating.
**
This piece was curated with the explicit permission of my real-life girlfriend who asked I clearly state that I do not actually think she is an evil talking skull, and that I love her very, very much.
“So you have enough woodworking mastery
to construct & maintain ships worthy of transatlantic travel,
but when it comes to an effective prosthesis
you’re going to settle with the ‘peg approach?’
Oh, the ship is stolen…
Well that makes sense.
Wait, you have the thievery skills
to commandeer a vessel
with a crew of armed government employees
but you can’t shoplift the lower half of a mannequin?
I don’t mean to hark on the leg thing, but frankly
nothing about a self-employed alcoholic
gallivanting around a slippery, rocking ship deck on an unvarnished table leg
screams “insurable,” Mr. Beard.
Did you have any questions?
…
I don’t know about pillaging
but we do cover rape counseling
with a proper referral, of course.
No. No. No… We counsel the other side, Mr. Beard…
Yes, the victims.”
My doctor once said of depression,
“There is no wound greater
than the one unseen;
who festers within
cutting without bleeding
weighing you down
robbing the appetite
& the less apparent our reasons for suffering
the smaller and colder this insidious cage becomes
its vicious whisper
insatiably demanding an unknown,
eating instead the heart & very will
to prosper
from your insides out.”
He died of literally, the biggest tapeworm you’ve ever seen,
which might account for some of that stuff,
but at the time it seemed really deep and whatever…
A centipede with a foot fetish
has a genetic predisposition
for being really, really happy.
Being an evil genius needn’t be expensive.
Consider the simplicity and economic efficiency
of filling a merry-go-round with Alzheimer’s patients
& donning one, very scary mask.
A Narcissist Writes Letters, To Himself 