and then, his rage set in.

it was a rare thing to witness,

but once you did,

it was unerasable.

his pure and constant fury

was the light which burned the film.

it was,

in many ways,

more fuel for the fire

in his smile.

when he would stub his toe

or flub his words,

or when that nice smelling girl

from down the way

would hurt his heart,

this strange and crooked man,

he’d take those little splinters

and tightly wind them with his love.

so tight, in fact,

he thought that he might burst.

but first, he thought,

i must lay my weary head to rest.

for if we cannot sleep,

well, then it’s hard to dream.

and it was in his dreams, he knew,

he could take his latent lust

and inherent fidgets,

and perhaps find his sweet release.

fuming in a falling dream,

he could disappear

above the hearts and hats

of less than lucky men.

perhaps, within a nightmare,

he’d find himself being chewed upon

by some ghoul or other fiend.

he’d only hope they’d save his heart for last.

and truly, inside a dirty dream about

that nice smelling girl

from down the way,

he could take his rage

(that bare and burning temper

that had always hurt his hands...)

and use it, not for hurt or heartache,

but to tend to the needs of the nectar in her thighs.

that, he thought,

would be a pretty good dream.

if only i could sleep.