Death’s Muse

Death’s Muse

I went down to the street where the lights were dim and the plays weren’t  The boys and girls thought they were being nice little heroes and stars but they were the usual run of the mill useful idiots and seminal stalkers ..They all played ball with the dirt and the grime and they all were immersed self loathing bravado ..They were conquering the world or saving it but they first had to model their spit and slime for the panting watchers and grovelers. They were slime to touch and venomous to turn your back on ..They were my legacies

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They strode their little patches of land and territory with the luxurious grace feline stalker and big cat appetites.  They cackled and the seethed.  They were the midnight dancers at the all saints ball.

Sloop was my angel.  She slithered best.  She clawed best.  She tri angled best.  She watched my back for the holes it might present.  She was always a come on, always a ferret ferreting.  She blew me kisses.

Pitch was a male Doberman all teeth and bite.  He was my buddy. He was the man of valor, the consummate idol of those less valuable.  Pitch was a spear.  He was a spear to use or not but a spear he liked to be.

Into the muck and mire they dove.   From which they came they dove.  Eyebrows raised, sentient sneers in place.  The black arts awaited.  The confrontations.  The glory. The gain.  The pain.They smelled the witches brew.  They brought trading chips.  They wanted to rescue the maiden, right the wrongs, still the storm.

The storm brewed fatuously.  The collected ugliness of the greeters and smilers oozed out the poisons of souls.  Sloop and Pitch were addicted to the poisons of souls.

Sloop hated ugly useless vanity.  Pitch wasn’t a fan of simpering venality.Death was their mutual acquaintance.  He liked seeing them.  Thought them cute and valorous. He wished to accommodate their fancies. He wanted to let them play cards and lose.  The stakes were always the same.  The search for the hidden angle  The way in.  The secret way to turn the worm.  To have the suckers all fondle the cactuses of proud little dregs of hiding in plain site.

Death protected his own.. He protected those who honored him with their sloppy, rancid takes and tiresome vapid posturing.  Death protected his own and he shut off all paths to get at them.They were his stake in time, his stake in space, his stake in the worlds in which Sloop and Pitch traveled.  They were the boys in the band, the girls on the bus, the vermin in the basement…the casino operators, the con men amid the shiv wielders.  The were charming little Death’s disciples.;They could only be gotten to through him.  ..and maybe his muse.

Death always welcomed Sloop and Pitch.  They were mean enough to deal with.They wanted in on the back door. In on the angles, the rifts, the plays.  They wanted in. They wanted the joys of action, the joys of the game.  They wanted love in all the wrong places. 

Death was a hard taskmaster.  Sloop and Pitch were wily. Another day another chance.  The way in to Death.s domain was up for grabs.. So said Amy the muse.and Death loved his Amy the muse.  But not that much  Not today.

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