(for Edward Gorey)

Michael A. Arnzen

Alma almost got away.  Bailey was blasted bloody into the blacktop.  Christa, conked unconscious.  Dora, gored.  Eddie bled as dry as Freddy.  Gordon's goopy on the ground.  Heather, weathered in chains on the rainy rooftop.  Indigo, spinned to and fro in the ceiling fan.  Jack, put in the box.  Kyle killed.  Louis juiced.  Mike microwaved.  Ned needs a head.  Oscar is nothing but scar tissue now.  Peter Peter, pumpkin eater, puked up his poisoned pie.  Queenie wears her tiara upside-down, the jewels all jabbed into her temples.  Rusty congeals in a net of iron chains in the shallow end of a brown pool.  Sara's scared of plastic, so saran wrap muffled her screams.  Tom's now tomato juice.  Vince was minced and forked into fondue.  Wayne wanes, dribbling the rest of his life into a boring basin.  X marks the spot where Mark was spotted in my crosshairs.  Yolanda won't yodel without a throat.  And Zorro won't zee tomorrow.

And who could forget you?  You will get yours, unusually, soon.

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