85. The midnight dentist. (10th April ’15).

Midweek, in the throes of relief at having the broadband fixed I posted “84. Won’t you break my bread with me.” I said it was part of three linked pieces and that I’d be posting part three at the weekend, well it’s Saturday. Their all firmly in the “Gothic Americana” camp with retribution and redemption right out front. Of course you might find the odd cliche in them, but it’s meant, ahem, all in the best possible taste. Blame the music I listen to, but they were a lot of fun to write. Together with “83.Wreck of the old treble 6.” originally posted in April this completes our cheery little threesome.

I’ll post them all together sometime soon, hopefully later this weekend, in the one post when I can think of a suitable title as an umbrella for them.

85. The midnight dentist. (10th April ’15).

With teeth spitting vitriol,
And gun loading spite,
By cocking both barrels,
And aiming it straight,
From the front of her head,
Right through to the back,
He made a tunnel through there,
To let in the moonlight,

Why she’d run off,
And where she’d been,
Nothing was ever known,
But her scratching and biting,
Would leave him shaking,
And grieving his loss,
When he loaded his gun,
And settled her noise,

Even the best dog known,
Gets the 12 gauge dentist,
And a grave in the swamp,
When she comes home rabid and torn.

(c) Jim Laing 2015.

Outtakes.
85. Moonlight on a bloody porch.

She never bought no clue,
Just left me a boy to bury,
And a bloody porch to clean,
But even the best dog of all,
Gets this end, and a grave in the swamp,
When she comes home rabid and torn.
But evisceration means,
He’ll have to grieve twice,

She never bought no clue,
Just left me a boy to bury,
And a bloody porch to clean,
But even the best dog of all,
Gets both barrels and a grave in the swamp,
When she comes home rabid and torn.

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About Jim Laing

The Buddha said there were four kinds of people. Those who run from dark to dark, those who run from light to dark, those who run from dark to light and those who run from light to light. From a life going from dark to dark to having a few years running from dark to light, with scuffed hands and knees from sometimes falling, I may be getting the hang of it now. How it began is not now how it is, I need a quiet space, After the noise of the day, So I take sanctuary in the creativity, And my soul feeds, On sometimes dark, Sometimes light fantasy, And I dare like many to work, But stay up off my knees, To dream, perchance to suffer, But always still to dream. Here are things mostly lyrical and poetic, with nonsense sometimes, reviews and personal musings. The coffees hot and always black. The words not necessarily so.
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