wWWhHHAAM!!
Triple H swung a sledgehammer
over the head of Thanos.
I drove a Transformer–one handed
through craters from mortar shells.
Mordor in a four door sedan.
It was Saving Private Ryan with no stakes.
Everything was Zack Snyder colored.
Valkyries wore tennis skirts with wings
out the back like banners. Sky ribbons of Stevie Wonder design trailing behind like echos. They was yoga thick.
Lexapro dreams are roller coaster accidents.
Joy is horror and my serotonin superheroes
save the world every night.
The battle was really Jon Snow.
It was very Full Metal Jacket
with nerf guns and super soakers.
I thought I was gonna die.
My pharmacy called and said
there's a possible, rare, interaction
between my antidepressants
and my arthritis meds.
Something with my heart.
I wanna be not sick one day.
SPLACkt!
The sound of a Valkyrie sword
cutting one of Thanos' minions in half.
The Valkyrie looked like Meg Thee Stallion.
Tory Lanez daddy screamed in the background.
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Chris Williams and writers in Poets and other communities.
Back River
I lost my feet in the changing sand as I stepped towards the shore. I looked for them with my hands, I made little river deltas in the shallows of the tide, I reached under every bubble, curious if my toes were still there, but feeling okay if I lost them. I lost sight of my friends when they pulled off their legs and turned back into mermaids. I picked up sand and made it mud with my cupped fingers, my hands a chalice of clay filled with salt water. I sat cross legged baptizing myself, while a convent of seagulls read out loud from the bible of salt and air. They were singing the same hymn but different parts at once. They were all the Virgin Mary with their white flappy veils for wings in the breeze. They flapped and cried and their wings beat at the tomb of the wind rolling back an Easter Sunday of salt spray. I was comfortable in this church. The pews were being pulled into the altar, one grain of sand at a time, an uncountable amount of prayers under the wash at every high tide.
By Chris Williams 3 years ago in Poets
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.