Horror

Tool

That old brown Barlow jack
knife my drunk of an old man
used to gut bass caught
in Never Look Back Lake
sure comes in handy
when the devil raps
his bony knuckles on
my trailer's rotting door.

I inherited it after he drowned
in his secret fishing hole down
the road with a belly full of Wild
Turkey, beef jerky and slit wrists,
the capsized  rowboat
a swell makeshift coffin.
Fish cleaned his face right
off his empty ass skull.

That same sweet blade I used
to gouge eternal valentines
and our initials in the back
booth at Duff’s bar and grill,
the greasy mahogany table
scarred by generations
of junkie lovers with their wild
eyed fucked up dreams.

It was at Duff’s when you said
Mack looked cute like some boy
band  heartbreaking piss ant
with his new haircut and shave.
A shame you won’t see
his hair grow out as I cut
that optic nerve clean and carve
out your beautiful blue eye.

Tether that ball to a vein
and a bone from your sweet
ass thigh making a fun ass
paddle ball game for that kid
who I know now ain’t mine.
At least that little bastard
won’t get the Barlow
when I’m line dancing in hell.