The Cut
by Dot Wickliff
The crickets have stopped chirping;
it’s the middle of May’s darkest night.
A gravestone covered in shadows . . .
sits lonley under the moonlight.
—
Through the freshly cut grass
white-walled tires hunt and prowl,
they come to stop at the lonley stone . . .
with a crazed, primordial growl.
—
Its phantom engine revs—
Let’s drive, drive! it screams—
and six feet below the dirt . . .
eyes long-closed open and gleam.
—
His cold heart starts pumping,
this is the thrill he can’t resist,
the fiend’s desire quickens and swells,
like a bloated, necrotic cyst.
—
Quickly through the black dirt and worms
the fiend clambers up and then out,
for miles around the sounds echo:
Wild whoops, howls and shouts.
—
His yellow eyes widen, then settle
on his oldest, dearest friend,
the grey metal and paint still like new—
How many long years has it been?
—
Giddy lunatic behind the steering wheel,
the dark mirrors adjusted just right,
his skeletal claw finds the stick shift—
Be warned all who waken: We own the night!
—
He cackles through a demonic grin,
a rotten laugh boils in his rotten gut,
and as the tires start spinning . . .
The director yells “CUT!
—
Great work everybody,
let’s take ten and we’ll regroup.
Hey Hansen, Ramierez! What's this?
Put a fresh buff on that coupe!”