Smoke Machine

I had a dream last night.
It was a dream in vivid colours.
A satisfying dream.
A dream of justice and
righteousness.

So, here I stood,
horsewhipping
a cowardly soul
with a large wet rag.

The rag was called
INNUENDO.

And the cowardly soul
looked like a pathetic
old spinster whose
belt had fallen off,
exposing soiled nickers
and hidden knives
dangling.


In the background
one could see
what appeared to be
a fire.
Only smoke was visible.

But then, as the screams
of the victim echoed
back from the Hills
of Deception and
Cowardice,
it became obvious that
there was no fire.
The smoke was coming
from a Texas smoke machine.

by Herbert Nehrlich

Comments (3)

Okay Sandra and Allan: I will let it crumble into devil's dust on P/H. Just keeping the wet rag handy, just in case. Yes Sandra, it is benaeth me, but even small pebbles beneath your feet can bother you. H
Yes let it go. This is beneath you.
The sad part about Texas is the size of the place, no one could trace the source of the fire, you could smell it, it would have the smell of a big fat dead rat Herbert leave the rat to become stardust, go back to the poetry become a critic you have your freedom to write, let it die a natural death Warm regards allan