Post-Mortem, etc.
By
Brian Rosenberger
Post-Mortem
I buried my wife. Six, maybe seven times. I’ve lost count.
We were married, close to two decades. It’s not that I no longer loved her.
I just didn’t want to deal with her. Her complaints about me, her family, her clients, her employees, our house, the World. It was too much, despite closed doors and earplugs.
Her unending noise. I’m sure it contributed to the overall decline in Global Heath.
She’s poisoned the World and me.
She became a lump, more focused on her business, our pets, and her next meal.
I walked and fed our pets. I cooked. She ate.
I tired of her complaints. I thought the axe would silence her.
Nope. I tried three times then moved to gasoline.
Failure. Not as easy as burning leaves.
Love does not burn despite the amount of debris. Kudos to Love.
Now I plead to social media, any platform that will listen.
It’s the Rodney Dangerfield joke – Take my wife please.
But I’m serious and willing to pay.
Mayor Mothman
Mothman never intended to run for office.
He was contend just being Mothman,
Content to feed and put in the occasional appearance
To satisfy the locals and visiting tourists.
He was content.
Given the anxieties, doubts, and concerns about the future,
The registered voters of West Virginia looked for a politician
They could believe. The polls showed most residents believed
The legend, could even cite personal encounters with Mothman.
Those that didn’t – anything was an improvement
Over the incompetent incumbent.
Mothman ran as a political outsider, a challenger of the status quo,
As a champion of change.
He licked the babies and potential voters with his elongated proboscis.
His social media blew up with those images.
Licked in public but not in the polls, Mothman’s slogan.
It worked. The voters and media loved Mothman.
Mothman won the election easily.
There were protest from the Green party, the Legalize Marijuana Now Party
(AKA the 420 Party), and the Bigfoot party.
No Bigfoot party candidates were available for comment.
The Storm
Storms off the coast of Innsmouth weren’t unexpected.
They were common. Innsmouth was a fishing village after all.
The Lighthouse was a beacon in the darkness, a guiding light
For the local fishermen, directing their ships safely to shore.
This storm was like any other, lightning cracked the sky,
Rage filled the clouds. The lighthouse’s lamp was still bright.
Till it wasn’t.
He rose from the depths as foretold. The storm was His herald,
The crashing waves His forerunners. Red eyes glowed in the darkness.
His worshippers gathered on the beach to witness His return.
Some survived. Most drowned.
His shadow obscured the lighthouse.
The waves claimed many fishermen that night.
The dead were the lucky ones.
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of As the Worm Turns and the poetry collections - Poems That Go Splat, And For My Next Trick..., Scream for Me, and the 2025 release, Where the Stars are Strange.
By
Brian Rosenberger
Post-Mortem
I buried my wife. Six, maybe seven times. I’ve lost count.
We were married, close to two decades. It’s not that I no longer loved her.
I just didn’t want to deal with her. Her complaints about me, her family, her clients, her employees, our house, the World. It was too much, despite closed doors and earplugs.
Her unending noise. I’m sure it contributed to the overall decline in Global Heath.
She’s poisoned the World and me.
She became a lump, more focused on her business, our pets, and her next meal.
I walked and fed our pets. I cooked. She ate.
I tired of her complaints. I thought the axe would silence her.
Nope. I tried three times then moved to gasoline.
Failure. Not as easy as burning leaves.
Love does not burn despite the amount of debris. Kudos to Love.
Now I plead to social media, any platform that will listen.
It’s the Rodney Dangerfield joke – Take my wife please.
But I’m serious and willing to pay.
Mayor Mothman
Mothman never intended to run for office.
He was contend just being Mothman,
Content to feed and put in the occasional appearance
To satisfy the locals and visiting tourists.
He was content.
Given the anxieties, doubts, and concerns about the future,
The registered voters of West Virginia looked for a politician
They could believe. The polls showed most residents believed
The legend, could even cite personal encounters with Mothman.
Those that didn’t – anything was an improvement
Over the incompetent incumbent.
Mothman ran as a political outsider, a challenger of the status quo,
As a champion of change.
He licked the babies and potential voters with his elongated proboscis.
His social media blew up with those images.
Licked in public but not in the polls, Mothman’s slogan.
It worked. The voters and media loved Mothman.
Mothman won the election easily.
There were protest from the Green party, the Legalize Marijuana Now Party
(AKA the 420 Party), and the Bigfoot party.
No Bigfoot party candidates were available for comment.
The Storm
Storms off the coast of Innsmouth weren’t unexpected.
They were common. Innsmouth was a fishing village after all.
The Lighthouse was a beacon in the darkness, a guiding light
For the local fishermen, directing their ships safely to shore.
This storm was like any other, lightning cracked the sky,
Rage filled the clouds. The lighthouse’s lamp was still bright.
Till it wasn’t.
He rose from the depths as foretold. The storm was His herald,
The crashing waves His forerunners. Red eyes glowed in the darkness.
His worshippers gathered on the beach to witness His return.
Some survived. Most drowned.
His shadow obscured the lighthouse.
The waves claimed many fishermen that night.
The dead were the lucky ones.
Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, GA and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of As the Worm Turns and the poetry collections - Poems That Go Splat, And For My Next Trick..., Scream for Me, and the 2025 release, Where the Stars are Strange.
