Thread: A couple short poems.

Here's a few. They're pretty short and a little bizarre. I think I was listening to Modest Mouse while writing them.

Where Do Them Ghosts Get Their Props?

There’s a ghost hangin’ his head down by the coast,
Glass of whiskey in hand; tryin’ to make a toast.
All his friends were bad and sent down to Hell,
But he was neither; So had no place to dwell.

Should've gone gung-ho with his trigger-happy friends,
Should've spent less time followin' them poker trends.
Not good enough for Heaven; Not bad enough for Hell.

That's why they don’t issue guns to
purgatory-walkin’,
maverick-talkin’
bounty-wearin’
spectre soothsayers.

---

El Diablo

The spider watched the indian get his soul ripped out,
Slain by a silver demon holdin' magic in his hands.
With a flash and a bang, fire spewed from those mitts.

The indian's chest opened wide,
the stray tomahawk sliced through the sky,

El Diablo had slain as fast as he came.