They Came Out of the Rain

They Come Out of the Rain


There's a killer on the road
His brain is squirmin' like a toad
Take a long holiday
Let your children play
If ya give this man a ride
Sweet memory will die
Killer on the road, yeah
"Riders on the Storm"
--Jim Morrison's last recorded song.


1.
They have no shoes.
Their toes curl like clenched fists.
They live on a diet of chocolate and blood
and never share. We hand them paper as offering,
and they take our fingers.
We try to teach them to dance
and they drip on our carpets and stare.
We try baking, leasing mineral rights
quite reasonably.
They have no interest in the things
of the belly or hands, only what’s beneath each.
They smile while they peel our faces,
chuckle while they guzzle from our throats,
guffaw loudly while pureeing our organs.
They sniffle in the heat of our common rooms,
leave muddy trails on our stylish white carpets.
When there’s nothing left of us,
we rise and follow them out into the drizzle,
chocolate in our pockets,
coldness beneath our skin.

2.
They have no shoes. Their toes curl like clenched fists. They live on a diet of chocolate and blood and never share. We hand them paper as offering, and they take our fingers. We try to teach them to dance and they drip on our carpets and stare. We try baking, leasing mineral rights quite reasonably. They have no interest in the things of the belly or hands, only what’s beneath each. They smile while they peel our faces, chuckle while they guzzle from our throats, guffaw loudly while pureeing our organs. They sniffle in the heat of our common rooms, leave muddy trails on our stylish white carpets. When there’s nothing left of us, we rise and follow them out into the drizzle, chocolate in our pockets, coldness beneath our skin.


C.L. Bledsoe

Posted on Pank Magazine
1. Line breaks by Glenn Buttkus
2. Cortney's prose poem