Witching Hour, The

night forms a bubble
around its middle
not unlike a small town
where the streets empty
after the shops close
sun goes down
day people have all
gone home to bed
the factories
have long since cooled
and businessmen
are counting their
money dreams
only thieves lurk around
in shadows, or
monstrous men
stumble drunk on
whoring fights
the world is run
by the hour hand of
work schedule
on this side
of the evening
their absence is
an enjoyable
pocket of fresh air
in which
to breathe

in the vacuum
of night
seated comfortably
armchair, lamplight
mind: my guide
to walk bare feet
through the tenement streets
of battery
bruised of heel
soul a gaping maw
want of inspiration
an immeasurable evil
to quell
with the heroic power
of my thumb
even if I must
conjure monsters
into being
hundred armed faceless
behemoths of
government monolithic
subjugate them all
to kneeling supine
down beneath
the terror of my

if this is not
a well-adjusted mind
truly then
prescribe by diagnosis
a wonder chemical
to crown
my protuberance
by the golden light
of god fear
sole my feet
with manufactured
weave from earthly laurel
a colored noose
around my necktie
jacket, slacks
from animal parts
a briefcase
see me with open eyes
feel my passing
with your senses
wave and smile
germ-laden pleasure
in my company
as successful wealth and beauty
never just
flesh covered meat sack
in a person suit.

© Emerys Watchel, 2015 All rights reserved.


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