Chainsaw Prayer
This is my chainsaw prayer, that you will lick with that twelve inch tongue of yours the galvanized teeth of my saw before it bites into our flesh, a holy communion of the commingling of our blood, our gore, into something beyond ourselves, beyond this vessel of putrid meat that hangs in strips over our bones. This is my chainsaw prayer, that we swing the gasoline powered death machine above our heads like maniacs before we remove the joints from their sockets. This is my chainsaw prayer; let it rip you and me to shreds.
Setting the Apple Store on Fire
Hot plastic melting, the taste of solder in the back of my throat, this fire won’t go out anytime soon, no, it’s going to burn until the phones and tablets return to slag, reduce to a puddle of doom. My problem is with paranoia, and I’ve got it by the bucketful, these wretched things that watch our every move, I’ll bake them until their glass eyes pop out of their metal skulls. I’ve locked myself in, so I’ll assimilate with what I’ve come to hate, is this what they mean when they talk about the singularity?
Lawnmower Man
You shotgun the stray dog that shits on your pristine manicured lawn. He’s already full of BB’s from the semi-toy rifles of the park children that are strung out on the fumes from the meth lab on Lot 4, so what’s a little buckshot between friends? You have six, no seven, lawnmowers the last you counted, all stolen from the suburbs where they won’t miss them. You swill Bud Light on your piece of heaven, your lawn, since your morbidly obese, diabetes riddled amputee of a father will drink himself into a sugar coma if you buy the real stuff, never mind the bourbon and shine you’ve got stashed away from your father’s cloying, sugar greedy lips, which you save for when the escort from Lot 7 comes over to give you sloppy head in exchange for maintaining her lawn with GATOR, your favorite of the stolen lawnmowers, the one you use only for her lawn and racing events down the way when you get up the need for some quick cash. You need some quick cash, since your mother is back in rehab and your sister is in jail, but they can go fuck themselves since you bailed both of them out of their shit problems and their shit lives the last ten thousand times. You know you’ll cave, and you and number 69, GATOR, will be down at the races, feeling the breeze in your hair, the only place where you’re truly free.
Jeremy Scott is from Albany, Georgia. He’s @possiblyarhino on Twitter. His poetry has been published or is forthcoming with A Thin Slice of Anxiety, AGNG, Angel Rust, Bear Creek Gazette, Selcouth Station, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Gutslut Press, Fifth Wheel Press, and others.
