The Last Laugh, etc.
By
Brian Rosenberger
The Last Laugh
Jocko laughed as his greasepaint was splattered.Like his blood.
Noodles screamed as his funny bone felt the impact,
Pain inflicted from a hammer. A real hammer, not some circus prop.
Noodles dripping blood reminded me of my dead wife.
Her pathetic whimpers as Noodles and the other Clowns laughed.
They laughed as my wife screamed. As I screamed.
Mr. Ha-Ha offered money, threats, curses, claimed ties to the Mob,
Elected politicians, the Clergy, and warned retribution.
I offered gasoline and a matchstick.
One of my favorite memories, his rubber nose melting.
Gaggles began with titters, then headed head-first toward madness.
A knife to the giblets cut that journey short.
Buffo succumbed to sobs. Pathetic. There’s no humor in tears.
Suffocated by way of balloons. Tough to breath when crying.
The Buffoon’s chuckles, to his credit, was contagious. Till it wasn’t.
I laughed till it hurt. The hurt transferred to The Buffoon.
Jokey ran. Tough to run in floppy shoes. Not fast enough.
Chuckles told one-liners, like an amateur comedian.
The chainsaw was a tough crowd.
A tidal wave of mirth, blood, and satisfaction. My satisfaction.
Revenge is sweet but unfulfilling, like Cotton candy.
For the record, I hate clowns. Fucking hate them.
The Super Garage Sale
The sign said “Super” and it was.
Wearable Claws, dented and rusted.
One Katana sword, curse included.
Eight never used steel tent stakes,
Great for Vampires, other monsters,
And Camping. A wardrobe of clothing,
Both leisure and professional, armored, latex, etc.
A pair of Web-shooters. Fluid not included.
Three Power Rings. Enables the user to create constructs
Based on imagination and will power. Battery not included.
One blue cape. Impervious to bullets.
One red cape. Impervious to insect bites
One Doomsday device. Never used. Sold as is.
Great deals for Heros or Villains or Citizens looking to inspire.
Prices negotiable. All sales final. No returns.
The Hikers
Strangers, not familiar to the Woods,
And the encompassing Darkness,
After the Sun descends.
The Woods get Dark. Very Dark.
A compass is great if you know how to use it
And can see. But the Woods are Dark. Very Dark.
Don’t count on the Moon or firefly illumination,
Or campfires. Campfires are stationary.
The fires don’t move. Until they do
And make headlines. Not the case here.
Bugs are bugs. You can’t depend on bugs.
No sidewalks, no street lights, no visible paths.
Just a canopy of shadows and the Moon.
The Woods are a different kind of Dark.
You don’t see anything, You don’t see shit.
Hope the flashlight works so you can see
The Maniac with an axe and see what’s coming,
And if you are fortunate to see a path and hall ass,
Survival like Sunrise, still hours away.
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 & the poetry collections - Poems That Go Splat, And For My Next Trick..., Scream for Me, & Where the Stars are Strange. If you can't find them, contact the author. He might know a guy who knows a guy.
By
Brian Rosenberger
The Last Laugh
Jocko laughed as his greasepaint was splattered.Like his blood.
Noodles screamed as his funny bone felt the impact,
Pain inflicted from a hammer. A real hammer, not some circus prop.
Noodles dripping blood reminded me of my dead wife.
Her pathetic whimpers as Noodles and the other Clowns laughed.
They laughed as my wife screamed. As I screamed.
Mr. Ha-Ha offered money, threats, curses, claimed ties to the Mob,
Elected politicians, the Clergy, and warned retribution.
I offered gasoline and a matchstick.
One of my favorite memories, his rubber nose melting.
Gaggles began with titters, then headed head-first toward madness.
A knife to the giblets cut that journey short.
Buffo succumbed to sobs. Pathetic. There’s no humor in tears.
Suffocated by way of balloons. Tough to breath when crying.
The Buffoon’s chuckles, to his credit, was contagious. Till it wasn’t.
I laughed till it hurt. The hurt transferred to The Buffoon.
Jokey ran. Tough to run in floppy shoes. Not fast enough.
Chuckles told one-liners, like an amateur comedian.
The chainsaw was a tough crowd.
A tidal wave of mirth, blood, and satisfaction. My satisfaction.
Revenge is sweet but unfulfilling, like Cotton candy.
For the record, I hate clowns. Fucking hate them.
The Super Garage Sale
The sign said “Super” and it was.
Wearable Claws, dented and rusted.
One Katana sword, curse included.
Eight never used steel tent stakes,
Great for Vampires, other monsters,
And Camping. A wardrobe of clothing,
Both leisure and professional, armored, latex, etc.
A pair of Web-shooters. Fluid not included.
Three Power Rings. Enables the user to create constructs
Based on imagination and will power. Battery not included.
One blue cape. Impervious to bullets.
One red cape. Impervious to insect bites
One Doomsday device. Never used. Sold as is.
Great deals for Heros or Villains or Citizens looking to inspire.
Prices negotiable. All sales final. No returns.
The Hikers
Strangers, not familiar to the Woods,
And the encompassing Darkness,
After the Sun descends.
The Woods get Dark. Very Dark.
A compass is great if you know how to use it
And can see. But the Woods are Dark. Very Dark.
Don’t count on the Moon or firefly illumination,
Or campfires. Campfires are stationary.
The fires don’t move. Until they do
And make headlines. Not the case here.
Bugs are bugs. You can’t depend on bugs.
No sidewalks, no street lights, no visible paths.
Just a canopy of shadows and the Moon.
The Woods are a different kind of Dark.
You don’t see anything, You don’t see shit.
Hope the flashlight works so you can see
The Maniac with an axe and see what’s coming,
And if you are fortunate to see a path and hall ass,
Survival like Sunrise, still hours away.
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 & the poetry collections - Poems That Go Splat, And For My Next Trick..., Scream for Me, & Where the Stars are Strange. If you can't find them, contact the author. He might know a guy who knows a guy.
