Nightmare Fuel

Jalapeno Nachos with cheese and chili 

on a summer Friday night at home. 

A B-rated horror flick with crumbs on my chest

kicked back and watching every murder scene. 

Beer number four, but who’s counting? 

Not my eyes, my mouth, or my gut, 

They don’t complain in the slightest

and my shirt doesn’t mind the splatter of cheese.

My eyes take in the images on the screen,

College kids being cut down left and right,

My cynical side wins out this time, 

and I root for the guy in the ski mask.

A subconscious being programmed tonight,

violent images and my terrible eating habit,

later tonight while this gunk processes, 

it will weave insane images in my brain. 

I sleep the sleep of a peyote dosed corpse, 

dead but dreaming an insanity, 

I flee from a killer in my marshmallow socks, 

with turn signals revealing my every move. 

My damn heavy legs just won’t move

because the entire world is wet concrete, 

and a gun has a two-ton trigger that won’t pull

can’t hit shit with it anyway. 

Thank God a payphone I can call for help, 

What are these gibberish numbers?

Where is the 9? Where is the 1?

Fuck me! I just called a pizza place! 

Now I am naked again in this hell

because in my dream world I only own socks

it’s only logical to run from a psychopath, 

bare-assed and lost in a cardboard cornfield. 

I hate spiders and I hate snakes, 

at night both are plentiful and they run on stomach acid 

dens of cheese, and webs of spicy chili, 

crawling on my body relentlessly. 

Who is to blame for this sedan to hellish terror? 

My own stupidity filled up the tank! 

At the station with bad dreams advertised, 

I topped off the tank with Nightmare Fuel.