Floating on my little boat,
adrift in a sea of black,
I pray the darkness won’t wash over me,
but every night’s the same.
From atop a throne of skins and skulls,
deep in flickering dark,
the Withered King held court.
Musicians pained. Singers cried.
Tattered husks of lovers and fiends danced
at the ends of their ropes.
And when the damned couldn’t go on,
that’s when the King did feast.
What does the little spider in my head,
crawling in its dust and webs,
feasting on odds and ends,
have to say for itself?
As I cleaned my garage, I came across a sight,
behind Christmas lights, beyond a moldy quilt,
a gathering of silverfish kneeling in prayer,
before my porcelain bust of “Weird Al” Yankovic
There is a time and place for which there is a time and place.
This is not the time,
nor is it the place, I’m sorry to say.
It is some other time that is not quite a good use of it,
some place that is not quite the point,
and either really could be defined in rather simple and direct terms
if one gave a shit about brevity.
This is not that, though.
It is, however, what one might call
A Complete Waste of Time.