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Karma
By
Steven Hoadley
I went to the Doctor's today.
He showed me a picture of health,
and I wasn't in it.
He said I never would be.
Something about bad cells
runnin' down good ones
and eating 'em up.
Suddenly, one more time,
I feel like
I'm being chased again
by that dusty old bitch
who seems to follow you
from barstool to jukebox
wantin' to be noticed
or fucked
or somethin'.
You buy the old punchin' bag a drink
hoping she'll drop face on the bar
so you can slip off
to the next joint
but all it does is
raise her skirt a few more inches.
Then you notice she starts swiping
her mouth with a big fat tube
of some red, lipstick-lookin' shit
like she's applyin' motor oil
to a cylinder that's just
dyin' for a piston.
So you start poundin' the bourbons
thinkin' you'll get rude enough
or sad enough
to chase her off
or take her in the shitter
and be done with it.
Instead, Miss Death-on-a-barstool
starts hackin' and yackin'
and tellin' you about her fucked-up
grand kids
and how they're
smokin' crack
and dick
and whatever else
the ungrateful
little fucks
can wrap their
skulls around.
All the while she's spittin'
that red greasy shit
she smeared on her face,
in your face,
makin' her look
like a drunken clown
gone rabid
and you get scared.
She reaches around
and starts tryin'
to grab your bone
with that pair of chopsticks
she calls fingers
then garbles some words up at you
from a throat full of snot:
"Hey big fella, I can suck the calories out of a hot
dog, how 'bout it?"
You reel back 'cause you
thought you heard it all
but now you really heard it all
and you figure somebody's
got to be fuckin' with you
'cause this hag can't be real
and you can't be thinkin'
the sick shit
you start thinkin'
So you say "fuck it"
and you tell
the winner of the
Miss Lung Cancer Pageant
to meet you in the crapper
for a dickin'
you hope you'll soon
forget.
You stand at the pisser
tryin' to stroke
Old Yeller
back to life
but the fucker
don't want no part of it;
'Let sleepin' dogs lay sleepin'
he says.
Right then you catch somethin'
out of the corner of your eye.
Some creepy fag
lurkin' in the dark
wavin'
and winkin'
and flickin'
his tongue at you
through a hole
in the shitter wall
You say what the hell
figurin' you can use
all the helpin' hands
you can get
no matter they're attached
to some cum-lappin' tweak
with his face
plastered against
the piss-soaked partition
of a barroom shithouse.
So you whip out Old Yeller again
and tell him he's got one more
bush to piss on,
then you can let him be.
Zipper down and dick in
you start feelin' like that
long, lone strand
of spaghetti
that just won't pull loose,
'cause your reason for living
ain't comin' to life
and suck-boy
on the other side
ain't takin' no
for an answer.
Just then
Mrs. Reaper
comes bargin' in
but she's to drunk
to notice you
got your pole
in a hole
and she figures
you're just waitin' around
for love
She walks up and latches that
toilet plunger of a mouth of hers
onto to your face
suckin' up half your chin
and drainin' that nasty
congestion problem
you had goin' on.
Meanwhile
sodomy-man
picks up on this
and it excites him
or somethin'
'cause he starts
tryin' to pull a ball
or two
through
that damn hole
and it ain't fittin'
and it's hurtin'
and you're dyin'
and suddenly
everything's
all
fucked
up.
Finally you can't take no more.
You yank
Old Yeller out
and start workin'
at wedgin' a finger
between you,
Mother Theresa
and that vacuum-seal
of death she got you locked in
tryin' to suck out your soul.
After breakin' loose
you sprint your ass
out of there
leavin'
the fag and the freak
to work it all out,
bypassin' the bar
the booze
and the bitter ending
you knew was comin'.
'Shit like that
drives men to drink'
you think,
as you shuffle
across the street
to Neil's lounge,
steal a seat
back by the cigarette machine
and wait for
Art the bartender
to belly-up.
Suddenly the door opens
behind you
and you glance back
like everyone does
to see if it's
victim or vice
and there they are,
the sin twins,
mouth and madness,
swallow and spit.
You lower your head
hopin' they don't spot you
but they ain't payin' attention
'cause they're beelinin' it
back to Neil's crapper
to continue whatever it is
they're continuin'
and it's that kind of shit
you're tired of thinkin' about.
But you can't stop thinkin'
about it,
and you're wonderin' how
fuckers like them
find fuckers like you
in a big fuckin' city
like that,
but they do.
Like a
fucking
cancer.
They do.
Copyright ©
2003 Steven Hoadley
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