A jack- o- lantern smiles tonight
by Glenn Bagshaw
a sly and sneering goblin grin.
A squash now mocks my life once bright,
for halloween’s so black-cat dim.
Hell’s realm's a bore and fiercely hot,
barred by a searing furnace door:
so awesome afterlife becomes
just awful more of life before!
The anti-Christ is not too pleased.
I try the most, fling first each curse.
He won’t esteem the wrongs I bring.
I ante up the worth of worst—
but devil’s anti-everything.
Be forewarned, beware the night.
The trees are stalking on each root.
If you are crushed, owls braced on bark
are not inclined to give a hoot.
Bone-men will break-dance all the night.
They’re thirsty since they ooze their wine.
They’ll drain your fine blood, fill the holes-
you'll be the stuffing- be on time.
Crazed fiends from hell make irksome sprites
and horrid mishaps haunt the woods.
If you should meet a formal tux,
fast bleeding smoke from jacket cuffs
don’t say 'good day! '—there's nothing good!
His green infernal smile turns foul.
He’ll lose his head while combing hair.
Beware, if he should take your hand,
for, yes, he has that southern air.
Hot handshake may seem southern grand-
but his heart's iced by frigidaire.
You’ll have the best twins: wine and dine.
Our smoldered Prince- the gracious host.
The wine’s from vineyards of your veins
and damn, you’ll be a dandy roast!
He’ll fashion you; you’ll be like him,
with sinful, dapper decadence,
demonic style: that hot, tanned look;
an evil, steam-pressed elegance.
His legions now hand-make his art.
Your suit’s completely terror -made.
It’s very much a borrowed life,
and that Old Nick, you must repay.
You're devil- done as devil should.
Know “done” means “dead”—know' foul' is 'good'.
Then tomb will be your overcoat,
a rope for ascot, flame-forged clip,
ground bones, now sand, will fabric pants-
the devil knows you’ll crave to itch,
but hell, you’ll never have the chance.
Your boots will tread the zombie’s route.
You’ll wed the pride of withered hags,
a nest of bedbugs coiled, your belt,
with lizards lacing gut that sags.
A marble hat, grave last design,
your eyes are squirming dragon’s eggs.
If they should hatch—they're split! you’re blind!
Yet never think to slip away-
feel volts of lashing eels jolt legs….
Both charmed and charming, yes that’s you!
Our fatal prince with spider stitch
has needled Hallowed Eve's hot hit;
but stepping out will fall hell-bound,
a flaming flop, a burning sin,
now strung to spits, the very pits,
a downer... toast! - more burnt than brown.
You're overcooked. You're underground