Scott Thomas Outlar

Everyone seems to think
everyone else is a sociopath
these days.

It’s probably
just an error
in the narcissistic algorithms
of social media

in the modern age
of passive-aggressive
paranoia.

Remember when
the beast
was still approaching?

All the hours,
all the days,
all the years
spent in preparation?

It’s called black boots,
baby, darling,
sugar pie, sweetheart,
& there’s not a damn thing
romantic
about them treading
on our necks.

I told you so
a thousand times
and more

about the New World Order
and all its
sold out
whores.

I want to chew
on the old pages
of war
you tore
from the scriptures

Mostly eye for an eye
feast until blind

I want to sit
silent and stupid
at the top
of some mountain
paralyzed
in a yogi position
so it all seems simple

Detachment never solved
a single damn problem

I want to lick
the tears
from your cheeks
and hear you sing
about where
the bones are buried
but mouths
have run dry
in this desert
so I’ll bite my own
tongue instead

Drama and chaos
make the messiest bed

Sometimes the right words to say no longer exist

let the wound bleed out
it is only of the flesh

no sugarcoating left in your voice
or deeds

Sometimes the most sincere prayers simply don’t work

Sometimes the kiss of death comes served with a smile

but mostly we just carry salt
and regret

editors note: The Drs say to go salt-free, keep the pressure low. Know it alls; easy to say… – mh clay

Once upon a time, there was a fire.
Come to me now, and I will be
your perfect disaster/lacking consequence/
breathing only the stale miasma
that must be sucked from the sky.

Once upon a time, there was a wound.
Place your lips on mine, and I will bite
with fangs blessed by God/righteously anointed/
spitting out the plastic utopia flames
that melt this petroleum paradise into a puddle.

Once upon a time, there was a fallout.
Speak to me now, and I will answer
with the intensity of nuclear inclinations/crashing empires/
swirling with the wind of chaos
that tastes of whitewash poison on the tongue.

Once upon a time, there was a liar.
Trust in me now, and I will dress you
in a perfect suit and tie/soapbox symptoms/
testing the limits of a broken theory
that pushes and pulls until the rubber snaps.

A cold medicine fog in the head
served over the counter with a kiss
still pales in comparison to the tryst
enjoyed while dancing with drugs
during our roaring twenties
when prescriptions were never sought
because they could be filled
by friends without degrees
to alleviate the suffering and agony
temporarily one dose at a time.

It’s not the same game being played any longer
in these middle-aged years of wisdom
when detached peace has been achieved within
even while tragedies befall the world at large.
Double-edged crosses and encoded helixes
scratch the surface of DNA with a scalpel
to trigger the gene reflex of renunciation in cells
as sanctioned programs drift across television screens.

Woe be to the harbinger of chaos
who arrives on the scene and discovers
that the prophecy he’d been tasked to announce
already came to pass without much effort.
Fallen cities mirror the burning blood
sloshing with designer chemicals concocted in labs
that are pushed to birth a placated future
where pretty neon lights pulse us all to sleep.

Midnight erupts
in the Vatican foyer
as white lights on the tree
start flickering
with crazy
kaleidoscopic colors
that pulse through the swirling portal
ruptured open
from an ancient dimension.

The moment is nigh.
The solstice arrives,
and it’s sure to be the last
as the orbit of the sun
is permanently frozen in time
by a most divine
and devastating power.
As the savior hangs
on the horizon
for three days,
the ornaments come awake;
alive and fully alerted
to the mission at hand.

To wit:
The Easter Bunny must die!
There is no longer space
in this holy place
for more than one
miracle of imagination.
Santa has been awarded
with the golden crown,
and the only thing
silver and bronze thorns
are good for now
is to be forged
into sharp swords
with which to cut
that silly rabbit
right out of existence.

Hooting from the branch
where it’s attached to a hook,
the head owl pops open
its peepers;
and in those wild eyes
there shines
a masterplan
of malevolent persuasion.

Round up the troops for war!
Elven soldiers unite;
it is time
to take a bite
out of chocolate eggs
and lay the seeds
of destructive devastation
upon the figment of
spring equinox fantasies.

The wings of winter
are cold, indeed,
and spreading fast
their lunacy
across the land
with icy intentions
of feverish meltdown.

There can be only one!
Now it’s off
with the head
of all hopping
pretenders to the throne.

There is no hole
deep enough to escape
the terrible fate
of the tragedy
that awaits
our furry friend.

Floppy ears
are burning hot
because the curse
has been cast
with a speech of fire.

Woe be
unto the fallen one
whose destiny lies
beneath the hooves
of Rudolph.

The curtain drops
upon a scene of black
as blood drips red
into the white snow
on the ground.

I stared straight into the eyes
of Jesus Christ
through the side window
of a Mormon church
several years ago
during the early a.m. hours
on a cold, blustery, winter
morning in December
somewhere outside the suburbs
of Atlanta, GA.

Now maybe it was all due
to the cheap bottle of whiskey
I’d quickly consumed
to drown my liver
while absorbing the vitriolic wisdom
from a Doug Stanhope comedy special
before taking my drunken sojourn
through the city,
but I’m fairly sure
that J.C. sent
a synchronized smile
imbued with the Holy Spirit Vibration
back in my direction.

Years prior to that,
I met the Easter Bunny
at the bottom of a rabbit hole
I used to frequent
where I eventually wound up
losing much of my mind.
Well, hell,
come to think of it
that might help to explain
the earlier part of this story.

I still chase after Cupid
each new Valentine’s Day,
struggling to steal
one of those damn arrows
he refuses to shoot my way.
But that, of course,
is a tale for another time…

Most people,
you’ll find,
can hardly handle,
if at all,
the shit
from their own childhood –

and you expect
the masses
to deal with
thousands of years
of ancestral DNA
swirling around
the synapses
of their sub consciousness?

Come on!…
I came here only to dance –

Everyone pays in the end,
one way or another,
for better or for worse,
until death do us part.

Everyone gets stuck with a tab
they cannot afford
while at the bar, alone,
dead in their seat,
dead on their feet,
dead in the gutter,
sleeping in the street,
drowning in the puddles,
freezing in the cold,
shaking, starving, strung out
from fasting, dizzy,
delirious, down on their luck,
left for dead, walked over,
danced upon, forgotten
by the future that never came –
in the end, everyone will pay.