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Here's a new (for non-Patreon folk) Texts From Last Night poem. To get daily art in your life made by me, become a patron today!
(803):
The magician guy on probation is here at the bar. I'm gonna get him to show me a trick
K,
I'm drinking
Right now.
First sip
of Irish Rose
Since my time, I said.
Doesn't matter, I said,
Said it don't matter
Why
I was serving.
Story's never so much fun
Compared to what movies
Your brain makes,
Given simple props.
See that milky scar
Cradling my elbow,
The faded tattoo
Sleeping
On my chest:
In silvam ne ligna feras.
Some Horace - Latin.
Don't carry logs
Into
The Forest.
You
Want more?
Fine. Pick a card.
Take your time
On the choice.
Place it back
In the deck.
Good.
Let's do
A few loose shuffles.
Gonna take a slug.
Now,
Hold these four
Selections,
Their identities obscured
To you,
Let me rifle
Their corners, their etchings,
In your trembling
Fingers.
You
Need
To trust me,
Stranger. From this point, beyond.
Show me which card you've isolated.
Pour your energy, warm and precious,
into its precise spot.
Close
Your
Eyes.
My fingers
Snap,
And the sulphur
Jostles you alert.
Three cards alight, aflame.
You scream, drop them,
Grip the final
Totem
In your paralyzed fist.
And
As I gently
Pat out the
Burning embers,
I mutter:
Five of Clubs.
Sip one last time,
And I'm out the door.
Don't turn back
While you slowly
Uncurl
Your fear-soaked palm
To see that matching
Card
Staring
Right back.
