Weekly Challenge May4 – Duets – “Hell’s Hand Satchels”

Written by Mockingbird Down and Americana Injustica

“Why do we sit at this table, my Friend?
in the back of the bar behind the pirate’s curtain,
I believe that we somehow have each been,
on separate paths to the same trouble, again;
these kinds of places mean only one thing,
the scars on our faces are rather telling,
now let’s drink and divulge in our comradery,
but, why is it that your hands are trembling?”

“Don’t sip so fast, my dear. My hands only
tremble because of the quieted rage I have grabbing
at my chest. Can you see them, love?
The demons of the bastards and the whores as they
laugh and squeal in time to each others bleating?
I have brought us here, for clear and precise reasons,
and your scars will only serve you well by the time
the reckoning has begun. It is a very beautiful night.”

“Aye – you’re right; what a perfected, star-filled sky,
epochs in time, they still shine – a shrine to you and I,
a luminary mapping of the vengeance in your eyes,
a twinkling mirror image of the bastards that must die;
Now sit back and let your chains down, my friend,
indulge in the strength of our unity, once again,
we both know how it goes: it’s us against them,
in an infinite war for the Hell that we find comfort in.”

“You speak truth. I have grown weary of these chains
and the weight they add to my steps. My shoulders have
become accustomed to carrying burden of injustice; Hell’s
hand satchels; filled with the names of the hunted horsemen
who failed to do what we must do. But – I share this load with you;
my kin both in the infected shadows, and in the guileful light.
Intoxication it is, my friend, both of the mind and of the body.
Tonight we watch the stars unfold, and light the way for morning.”

the beasts

The beasts
with much articulation
they do not look for adulation.

Founded writing,
and most important expression.

did build a new small nation,
and also quite realistic.

Stay Frosty gents and gentesses.

Pinky Fingers in a Champagne Tub.

They took my finger,it was the right-hand runt;
they chopped it clean offand even cauterized the stump;
I couldn’t believe it,even as I, myself – bled;
they seared closed the wound
I was fixed on my pinky, instead;And when the shock wore off,
and they dumped me down the block;
I came pounding with a bloody paw,on your secret passage door;“Where did they take your finger?”
you demanded to find out;
hell-bent on reconnoitering,racked your rounds and bombed out;
You returned with twenty seven;pinky fingers in a champagne tub,you held it out in front of you;
an offering made by a murderous Coconut;
I crushed through pink ice cubes and fingers,
but not one of them was mine;
I stared at my heavily bandaged hand,and said,
“We’ll get it next time…”