Lament for Dr. JekyllJamison Crabtree
We have become as good as we dress; now Henry please Henry listen listen listen we are either (mis)tooken or (mis)taken with the grotesque. Whoever was buried (you), lets say we were there. We paid our respects, I spit my secret into your coffin, and nailed it shut (all of us love in jest). So yeah— then, me (myself) and everyone else, we all went back to business. But what, oh what to do? Not much for you. These days the only decent virtues are grief and cruelty. Who is left to kiss the blackmouthed brutes reclining against the cobblestone walls? The answer is: all, all all. Pucker up. This practice of living has made me sick. Jane decided to love me (for a while) after I pressed her like a flower between myself and a chain link fence (our lips are broken filaments). The wicked can take and take for the simple sake of it and for this they are blessed. I can’t live with myself anyway and anyway Henry, you’re dead, so let’s make this quick: with monsters, the most common question is hello followed closely by why are you doing this. And you already knew the most repeated phrase is no no, no, split like kindling with the edge of the tongue, burned to ash and ember in the pit of the mouth. And then the word is gone. Henry, what I’m saying is I do not want to be a victim anymore.
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