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    poetry


    dots Submission Name: The Morning After I Met Mr. Hydedots
    --------------------------------------------------------





    Author: DaleP
    ASL Info:    57/M/TX
    Elite Ratio:    6.21 - 629/553/330
    Words: 597
    Class/Type: Poetry/Serious
    Total Views: 424
    Average Vote:    No vote yet.
    Bytes: 3432



    Description:
       


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    dotsThe Morning After I Met Mr. Hydedots
    -------------------------------------------




    I stumble out of bed like dawn of the dead
    and in a frenzy of haste run to plead my case
    to the porcelain throne.
    Flailing like a bat in a hurricane,
    with a hook in my gut being yanked
    by a crank just for fun, I curse the father of time.
    I feel like I am in an ice bath that someone
    has nonchalantly dropped a hair dryer in.

    It is just a little bit of mind numbing madness
    with nowhere left for me to turn.
    Now that I am done I still feel like a rat in a stick
    glue trap waiting for the boot to come down.

    I shut my eyes to this paradise
    and get up off of my knees,
    the smell up here is enough to make
    my nose bleed. I piss on the mess
    then flush down the nest of vile disease.
    I swear that is the last time I eat
    red and green chili burritos
    smothered in two kinds of cheese.

    I go to the sink and splash water In my face,
    run trembling fingers through my tangled mat
    of greasy hair. Ouch,
    I just made the mistake of looking in the mirror.
    I look like a gnarled old hound
    with a mournful frown
    and patchy skin
    that has recently been blasted
    by the bazooka of a mutant clown.
    It is to bad the circus has already left town.

    Fleeing from the sight like a virgin on her
    wedding night fleeing the red pillar of doom.
    I stagger to the kitchen and flip on the light.
    My brain cries out like a wounded child burning
    from the welts of a million red fire-ant bites.


    Girding my loins for the next trial
    I head for the alter of hope.
    I pick up the chalice of bone in my
    trembling, weakened, good right hand.

    I stare at the machine squatting upon
    its marble altar. I know what this is,

    I remember what I will have to do.
    I approach the urn of fulminating power.
    I dispense some of the bitter bile
    into the chalice and bring it to my lips.

    Hot wires of flaring magnesium
    pierce my skull through the bone.
    More than a few of my last pain circuits just blew
    and now I remember this is new.


    And sure as hell it aint Folgers in my cup
    it has got to be Star-Bucks special brew.
    Mr. Hyde had warned me about days like this
    but reality can just go get screwed.

    At this rate I am never going to
    make it to the laboratory on time.
    Rummaging quivering fingers through
    the refrigerator I grab an amanita muscaria

    to eat on the train and ease my pain.
    I fumble my way to the railway station
    In fact I just barely catch the train.
    Gazing out at the view I see seven

    women in thongs, all with white
    mustaches, now I am craving milk.
    I know what I am feeling I know
    that it is wrong, but what can I do?

    It is just Madison Avenue,
    screwing with blue.
    Pavlov-ion reflexes aside
    I settle back for a long train ride.

    I am certain now of just one thing
    I am going to skin Mr. Hyde alive.
    Then I will sit back with a beer
    and wait until he dies.










    Submitted on 2011-01-01 15:00:10     Terms of Service / Copyright Rules
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