deepundergroundpoetry.com
The telephone booth.
Sunset at the cemetary.
Of a different sort, admitedly
One tomb in the form of an old Cadillac
Another with the statue of a child and his beloved dog.
He sat next to the one with the winged Archangel
Protecting her Lord.
Waiting.
Waiting for his Muse to deign speak to him.
Waiting.
That's when the phone rang.
As a reflex he went to his pocket
But the ring did not come from there.
Looking around he noticed the phone booth.
''Arbeit macht Frei'' written in forged iron at the front.
He opened the door, went in, picked up the receiver
''Hello?''
''Hello Michael''
''....What? Who are you?...How do you know my name?''
''Take it easy Michael. I am here to help you. Hey, that sooooo pure
Archangel over there is such a snotty bitch who feels superior to all.
She won't give you the time of day. Allow me to help you''.
''....But...''
''No but, Michael. She might help you write some cute lovey stuff
But you want to write real stuff you have to suffer. I will
Help you with this.
For only 49.99$ per month at
The devilmademedoit@darkpits and a small percentage of your soul
I assure you you will earn success'',
Success. A writer's dream.
He agreed, left the cemetary happy.
Months went by, years went by,
Mud pits invaded his brain
His bank balance went sky high,
Product of fame and success
But his darkened soul,
What was left of it
Could not survive the shock
And when finally ending down in a corner of hell
He was registered as being
Paid in full.
Of a different sort, admitedly
One tomb in the form of an old Cadillac
Another with the statue of a child and his beloved dog.
He sat next to the one with the winged Archangel
Protecting her Lord.
Waiting.
Waiting for his Muse to deign speak to him.
Waiting.
That's when the phone rang.
As a reflex he went to his pocket
But the ring did not come from there.
Looking around he noticed the phone booth.
''Arbeit macht Frei'' written in forged iron at the front.
He opened the door, went in, picked up the receiver
''Hello?''
''Hello Michael''
''....What? Who are you?...How do you know my name?''
''Take it easy Michael. I am here to help you. Hey, that sooooo pure
Archangel over there is such a snotty bitch who feels superior to all.
She won't give you the time of day. Allow me to help you''.
''....But...''
''No but, Michael. She might help you write some cute lovey stuff
But you want to write real stuff you have to suffer. I will
Help you with this.
For only 49.99$ per month at
The devilmademedoit@darkpits and a small percentage of your soul
I assure you you will earn success'',
Success. A writer's dream.
He agreed, left the cemetary happy.
Months went by, years went by,
Mud pits invaded his brain
His bank balance went sky high,
Product of fame and success
But his darkened soul,
What was left of it
Could not survive the shock
And when finally ending down in a corner of hell
He was registered as being
Paid in full.
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