THE DARK

I've written and submitted my poem, The Mannequin, for this month's Globe Soup's Micro Challenge. They gave us a Prompt object, "A Laddar," and we needed to write a story or poem centred around that object. Meaning, we couldn't simply have that object appear in passing. It needed to play a key role in our story or poem and feel integral to the piece in 100 words or fewer. 

Results will be announced around November 1st. Stay tuned. I will post the results as soon as they are available. 

The End

©2025 Chris Sadhill

This soapbox

is a mirage—

a fever dream of my aspiration,

my despair,

my ego.

It’s my solution and

my demise.

My leech.

My worm.

My parasite.

I trudge through the underwood,

head cocked,

teeth gnashing—

a stag with nowhere to be,  

too much drool,

and not enough discipline, 

to do anything but decay.

Why I haven’t been mauled yet

remains a mystery.

It’s a slow death—

wandering,

trying too hard to fit in,

to matter,

to be useful,

to keep trying at all.

I’m digging for acorns

in a quilt of impenetrable frost.

Bukowski said,

“Don’t try.”

I get it now.

Yet I never listen.

I keep feeding the tick

because he’s hungry,

and at least I can be of use

to something.

Even if it’s

my own death.

© 2025 Chris Sadhill

Beware what you wish,

for the darkness is entangled.

It lingers in my absence,

grumbling in the shadows,

waiting for your tears to flow upstream—

like a salmon,

like leaden smog pouring across the wasteland

of how you remember me.

Sulphuric,

acrid,

bubbling bile—

the stench grows intolerable,

as you call me nearer,

as your river flows more rapidly,

as I clamber the waterfall.

We’re eternal now.

Long after you realize

you should never have summoned me,

long after it’s too late to turn back,

I’ll catch you in your dreams—

an incubus,

a recurring nightmare,

luring your heart,

inviting your body,

while it feeds.

Things happen in threes—

a scalene chokehold,

a death grip.

I’ll hold you close

while you deflate into shriveled memories

and loosened skin,

for the darkness is entangled,

and its hunger must be sated.

You should never have summoned me.

You should have left me as a ghost.

But now, your wish has been granted. 

We’re together, forever

In hell—

©2025 Chris Sadhill

Twas never love. No.

Twas envy—my poisoned tip

that killed him. She’s mine.

©2025 Chris Sadhill

Something from nothing;

they said it couldn’t be done,

that it was unnatural,

mathematically impossible,

yet here they are,

or rather,

here I am—

the versions of me existing outside possibility,

outside Einstein’s perfect equations.

Infinite,

homogenic,

non-linear layers—

an onion.

A symbiotic, simultaneous existence,

bound tightly by perception,

and observed as one.

One life.

One identity.

One chance—

no turning back.

Birthed from a black hole,

born from indecision,

from fear, 

from laziness, 

from self-loathing 

and crippling doubt, 

and depression,

and anger, 

and sadness.

The better versions have stories to tell—  

a multiplicity of me at my greatest,

a highlight reel

of my every potential, 

yet I remain the center of it all

and I have nothing.

Nothing to show for my existence. 

Nothing but the quantum probabilities 

of what could be,

what should be, 

and what would be.  

Onions are only good for tears. 

©2024 Chris Sadhill

This thing we do

revolves the sun;

it spirals inward

until we surrender ourselves

onto the bistered famished soil—

an amber helix

of resentment and rotting leaves,

overcast and acid rain.

Our backs boil

as we drown in November mud,

foreboding the inescapable decay.

And then the congeal of a white sea,

And then the lust of Lavandula,

And then the sweat of June beetles fucking,

And then,

the tipping point of the equinox

where we revisit repugnance.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

I drink to forget,

or to die in peace,

or drift as far as the spirits will drag me.

I ride in a bar stool basket,

filling hot air into a glass balloon,

and there’s enough fuel to wander the planet, twice.

So, I do.

Ascension is emery on skin.

The clouds are not as soft as everyone thinks,

but they’re quiet.

I sleep to forget

or to die in peace

or until one day I wake up somewhere else.

or someone else.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

You were different, 

unexpected—   

a shooting star in a speckled sky

with cerulean eyes.

Hopes and dreams trailed close behind, and

as you drew nearer,

my defenses weakened.

You fawned me 

just to lay me under the stars,

until I screamed NO, 

but you penetrated my atmosphere anyway 

with maximum gravity. 

Burning upon entry,

eyes on fire 

blinded by lust; 

I was invisible.

The heat made you sweat, yet 

I was a frozen cadaver—

emotionless,

stiff,

dead inside. 

---

Blood swirls my feet,

as a black hole swallows your filth.

Water drowns me in silence 

and carries my screams down city pipes

where a little girl is forced to live in the sewers.

I can’t scrub hard enough.

You were indifferent, 

unescapable—   

a planet killer,

and somehow, 

I feel at fault for

being in the wrong place at the wrong time, 

and I can’t scrub hard enough.

I just…can’t scrub hard enough.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Flowering from the graves of the fallen,

acid rain nutrifies the soul.

Stretching skyward

the sun becomes the threshold,

but beware forsaken redeemer

for new growth adds height,

eagerness is death,

and pride is the zombie poison.

Their arms may push you higher

where they themselves are too afraid to go.

and beware the blade

of the brainwashed masses.

or the tyrannical trimmers

of the gassed-up blind.

for if you want to make it until fall,

keep your head low

and wait for the clock to strike nine.

© 2024 Chris Sadhill

You called yourself captain.

You dreamt of a New Land, Vast riches, and Fame,

and we swam alongside your vessel for ten thousand miles.

Promises were broken.

Delayed gratification

never rectified.

Eggs placed in the basket

decayed the fruit,

so, you served up fish instead.

and I ate it all.

Some are still eating.

Now I’m sick to my stomach

treading an uncharted sea

wondering if I’ll find land before you do

or before I die.

either way, I’m swimming North.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Oh, the nicotine—

the hopes and dreams lying crumpled upon an asphalt grave.

Look at you,

soaking up the city sweat,

drowning in her puddle of tears as your ashes scatter ‘round like

a living funeral for a bad habit.

Oh, the desecration—

how your time was cut short by the yellow driver arriving too early,

and how she left you smoldering

while she made her hasty escape—

your thin smoke groveling after her feet,

as she vanished into the bustling mosaic of

brake lights and marquees.

Oh, the ingratitude—

the lipstick staining your white-speckled jacket,

and her sweet breath infuses an aroma

that’ll leave her scent lingering on you for years.

You were discarded like the rest of them—

half used up and thrown to the pigeons,

you were always bound for the gutters,

she just expedited it.

Oh, the injustice.

You weren’t her first, and certainly won’t be her last, but

you didn’t know that did you?

You thought you had something special.

You were intended for a woman with

long-term plans and munificent lips, yet

instead, you got her,

ravaging your finely-packed tobacco with too much flame.

You got burnt and never saw it coming.

Oh, the finality.

As she scampers away from that hole-in-the-wall she called home,

on the corner of One-forty-sixth and Edgecomb,

your ember fades into that polluted boulevard,

and your smoke is snuffed out by the exhaust fumes of an oblivious city.

And the memory of her tightly wrapped in that ebony dress,

scars the surface of a pothole wishing well

as you’re forced to lay there without a penny to throw,

left alone with your thoughts wondering

did she ever care as much as you?

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Brined eyes, swollen cheeks,

drowning in torrent waters;

her love’s set adrift.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Forget the grandeur, old friend.

Suppress the dream.

For you are the glass prisoner,

trapped beneath the babbling stream,

drowning

in white water,

hoping for mercy

from the rolling rapids

cascading over round rock.

Breathe in the distortion.

Flow like turbulence downriver,

for Narcissus awaits

by the water’s edge.

And to what does he owe the pleasure,

or to whom do I?

'Tis me.

I’ve been trapped here starving from the beginning

on both sides of the glass.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

I twist my fractal mind,

attempting to align with something I recognize,

but only fragments of me are revealed;

Some genius, a little beauty, and piles of hate—

I’m a scattered jigsaw left feeling unsatisfied and missing pieces.

I rotate again,

assuming that if I continue turning, I’ll somehow find the answers,

but all I find are more shards of glass and strewn pieces.

There are no real messages hidden here, are there?

Just more of myself.

I cannot be my own answer, can I?

The shapes of me continue to corkscrew.

I’m a crystallographic enigma caught in an egocentric trance.

Mesmerized by all my colors, I begin to lose time.

I become lost, inspired, and curious, yet constantly pessimistic about my existence.

Is that even possible?

Another turn and I feel I am meeting a stranger,

yet every part of me has lived here all along.

I think. If only I had met myself earlier, where would I be?

but then I must be reminded, I am here now.

I squint inquisitively wondering—

What's the meaning? What's my purpose?

Maybe with each adjustment, I change for the better,

and sometimes for the worse,

but change happens regardless.

If that’s true, then aligning to perfection will never work, can never be achieved,

and the answer lies within chaos itself.

Chaos...

…It’s the only certainty.

Perhaps I can come away with a deeper appreciation,

of who I am, who I was, and whom I have yet to become,

and maybe love is the same way.

Perhaps that’s why they say you should love yourself first.

So, I twist my mind once more

and greet me for the first time in a while.

Hello stranger, it’s time we met.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Do not confuse being alone

as loneliness 

because when you’re alone

you still possess 

a sense of self—

you’re simply solitary, 

and have no one, 

right now. 

Maybe sometime 

today, 

tomorrow,

next week, 

next year,

someone will find you

or you’ll find them

and you won't be alone 

anymore.

But loneliness

is different. 

It lacks a certain heartbeat, 

an absence of a soul.

It lacks you.

It doesn’t care for you.

It doesn’t ask your name.

It doesn’t want to listen to your sob stories. 

It’ll turn its back 

every chance it gets, 

and forgets you’re even here.

It leaves you standing at a bus stop 

waiting for a ride, 

when it was never coming to get you

in the first place.  

Even when you're not alone,

you’re alone,

feeling useless,

unfulfilled,  

unlovable,

incapable of loving anyone,

but wanting it regardless,

and yet, they all still adore you.

You chew at their tables.

You’re present at their 

special gatherings.

You clock in,

clock out,

drive home,

eat again,

drink a little.  

You’re here,

alive, 

with no reason to live

no understanding of a purpose,

your gas tank,

empty.  

Loneliness is you

sitting static on a speeding train

observing the world 

between the flashes,

mildly aware of the pulsing crowd 

coming and going

from their cushy lives, 

and getting off 

by the pull of a cord,

of their own free will.

They grow older, 

celebrating accolades

buying fancy homes,

and counting each other’s birthdays,

anniversaries 

until some die,

and then they mourn each other.

But loneliness

is you 

still seated on that tepid train

unaffected, 

emotionless, 

still empty,

because the parasitic worm deep down

inside you

has eaten everything 

everyone ever tried to put in—

You’re a lost orb,

endlessly wandering 

without light

in an infinite darkness, 

and you have no perception

of up or down,

left or right. 

There’s no meaning,

no hope.

You’re just a stray 

walking onward

forever

because not even you 

knows what’s at the end of a black hole

and you are

the void.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Today,

she wept for me,

because she couldn’t comprehend

how incapable I am

of seeing the genius, she sees

in her besotted stare.

Her face, an estuary—

where pity flowed into disdain

as she was forced to remain a spectator

of my demise,

watching me

loving myself

through degradation and sabotage,

and avoiding the mirror

like it was the plague.

I wallowed in it,

transfixed by the destructive vortex,

hellbent on pulling me under,

while she threw me a lifeline,

a line that would’ve undoubtedly

saved me.

But instead

she stood there,

makeup smeared,

grasping that limp rope—

tethered to my darkness, 

lonely, scathed,

and powerless,

because the whole time

I’d been hurling the preserver back at her,

choosing to surrender to drowning

over her loving embrace.

And I know it.

And it hurts me too.

And I’m sorry,

I regret it every time.

Today,

my wife mourned me,

because she didn’t understand

the darkness I live with

or how sometimes it swallows me whole.

And when it does, 

neither of us know if it’ll spit me back out,

or take me under for good.

Today,

she wept for me,

but mostly for herself,

left alone once again

to attend my funeral for the three-hundredth time—

just as heartbroken,

just as devastated

as the first.

When will I learn to divert the raging waters 

devouring our foundation

before the ground crumbles away, 

and takes us both?

When will I learn to grab the rope?

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Seasons change,

much like how eyes can’t stay open forever—

it’s science really, 

life happening between the blinks, 

like the dinosaurs.

One day 

they’re schlepping across the same land

where you now stand curbside, 

comfortably sipping that Frappuccino and 

worrying about what some nameless bitch said online three days ago.

And one day, they’re gone.

Much like that junkpile

melting beneath a ghetto streetlight,

where trash is someone’s treasure,

it’s between the flickers

of that short-circuited amber glow

where you too will disappear overnight.

Seasons change,

gray skies brighten to blue,

months turn to years, 

unprocessed rage boils over, 

and love floats away with the clouds to far-away places,

only to become a storm in someone elses sky.

And to them, you bid: Godspeed, or farewell.

But eventually,

new seasons approach,

fresh moisture collects above you, 

and once again you’re living in the clouds,

tracing your fingers across their impossible shapes,

and falling in love all over again, 

only to loathe again.

Seasons change.

Lizards the size of buses 

devolved to the height of chickens simply to lay our eggs.

And much like them, mankind will regress too.

In fact, we’ll likely drive ourselves to extinction,

using our own world-ending “asteroids.”

And perhaps, just like the dinosaurs,

our final worth will be reduced to 

the next intelligible species

farming breakfast

out of our asses.

At least then, we’d be worth something,

even if it’s just scrambled nutrients. 

Don’t fret, though.

Knowing all of this shouldn’t discourage you.

Instead, it should empower you 

to prioritize living your life to the fullest every day,

never giving a fuck about a million years from now

because hey,

seasons change.

So, to you,

I bid:

Godspeed,

and farewell.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

I am

the consequences—

the collection

of rotting fleshes

laying mangled

and neglected

by the wayside,

desecrated

withered

and aged

from your hate,

then needle-poked

and sewn

by your string of insults

laced with prejudice.

Born

from your selfish labours,

and malevolence,

I am

the leftovers,

the discarded scraps,

scar tissue,

stapled, bolted,

and hacked

hardly held together enough

to contain

an ordinary man

much less

an eight-foot-monstrosity—

You sought perfection

based on nothing

but insecurities

driving yourself mad enough

to inject the blood

of a thousand toxic souls

into a single empty cavity—

An unhinged obsession

ending in bioelectric rage

creating a paraspinal pulse

and legitimizing

an impossible science.

A necromancy

disproving everyone

including yourself

because

the moment you exclaimed

that I was in fact “alive”

beneath that melancholy sky

you were convinced

I was neither dead

or alive,

or worthy of either

so, you rejected me,

left me alone

and confused

on that frigid trestle bed

without a name,

my heart palpitating

and eyes filled

with the fresh glaze

of newborn sweat.

Congratulations

Mrs. Societal Shelly,

You

created life from death

only to kill it again

with abandonment

then buried it

under a pile

of despair

that is my body

and sealed it

within my hollowed core

just before

tossing me into a heartless world

to fend off mankind

alone.

I rose

unbeknownst to my fate

eager to find love

while wearing ignorance as a smile

and holding hope in an open palm

wishing it to be filled by another.

But an adolescent mind,

only needs the clock hands

to revolve the sun

a few times

to grasp how cruel,

“Out there” will treat you.

I’ve been spit on

shot at

and chewed out,

then chased off,

beat up,

and knocked down

too many times to count.

I’ve been ripped at the seams,

bruised beyond repair,

and my patience is stretched

as thin as my skin,

and I blame you

for making me see the world

for what it is,

and never being there to warn me how ugly

they thought I’d be.

Never once,

had I considered beauty

an attribute to measure character

nor had I stood by a mirror

weeping relentlessly,

but here I stand.

After constant beratement

and never meeting

a single soul with good intentions,

I’ve started to believe.

For the first time

in the mirror

I see what they’re afraid of.

I’m a walking graveyard

contorted by cruelty and pain

suffering from

social arthritis

deforming my limbs

and swelling my joints into mountains.

I’m a hideous mistake,

a horrible life

of your creation

worthy

to the flames of condemnation

but only after

your misery is complete.

Ashamed of who I am

I turn out the lights

I dry my sunken eyes

until I realize

I’ve acquired night vision.

I must have adapted to the dark

After all these years

becoming accustomed to

the absence of light

thanks to the ones

with pitchforks and spears,

the ones with guns

and knives,

and the ones holding fire

with hateful tongues,

but mostly

thanks to you,

Mrs. Shelly,

Thanks to you,

I see clearly in the dark.

I see what I am now.

and I see what I must do!

My eyes sink deeper,

and grimmer

becoming soulless ebony circles

fully dilated

with one clear purpose.

“I was benevolent and good;

misery made me a fiend

and if I cannot inspire love,

I will cause fear.”

I am your Adam,

but also, the fallen angel

warning you

that I’m unafraid

because

I am what

nightmare’s fear

and I’ll be the whispers

that follow you

through the streets

while bystanders gossip

as to what keeps them awake

and there won’t be

one mention of the name they dread

because when you left me deserted

on that grim November night,

I was born nameless

and that’s

how you’ll know it's me.

-Your Monster

©2023 Chris Sadhill

The world is vicious enough.

You don’t need hyenas

eating you alive

and tearing at your groins

to make you believe it—

Just open your front door. 

A limp dildo

cuts through the air

like a Katana blade;

A frayed man

wields hardened silicone

while guttural desperation

scars his throat.

The boulevard,

now a battlefield;

His tent, the last fortress.

The only thing left he owns

suddenly surrounded by badges

carrying out

the mayor’s re-election campaign.

The Slogan:

“Clean streets by twenty-twenty-three”

is holding firm at fifty-seven percent.

He pivots on one knee—

the warthog’s final stand

against a pack of Jackals

encroaching with gas masks

and batons.

Canisters become mortars;

Smoke filling lungs—

The Lord rains down tears,

and the man swings his dick blindly

like Saul of Tarsus.

With no God watching his back,

and nothing to lose,

he snarls his teeth and gnaws the air—

He’s a street mutt trapped in chain-link

going down biting.

His knotted and mangy hair

is suspended in time with the wind.

Guns drawn—

a knee-jerk reaction.

Pigs demanding

he put down the weapon.

Trigger fingers get twitchy

when they are hungry for a kill,

but somehow

he’s the ticking time bomb

who brought soft plastic to a gunfight—

he must be deranged.

He threatens them with his floppy dagger.

Wide-eyed like Manson,

twirling his martial dance

atop an asphalt stage.

His magic wand casts a spell

onto a dozen myopic egos

never noticing he’s crazed—

Blinded by fresh ink 

on their checks—

a mercenary’s wage,

but before he’s sent to the grave.

A woman shouts the truth

from a fourth-story balcony.

“Enough is Enough!”

“Leave him alone.

He never hurt nobody.

He’s just a harmless bum.”

More neighbors join in

and a crowd starts to come.

“Let Crazy Dave be"

“The streets are his home.”

Soon the mob grows

outnumbering the force,

standing behind the man

who's swinging and missing,

spitting and hissing—

He's a zebra, 

a unicorn,

an untamable horse.

“His home is our home!” they yell.

The crowd steps forward

not taking a chance.

Then an oblivious Dave

makes his advance.

The riot shields withdraw.

Crazy Dave roars his battle cry

and chases after them

while the crowd retreats inside

like nothing ever happened.

When Dave returns

he sheathes his sword

like any respectable Samurai.

He's defended his home,

defended his rights,

and scared off the enemy.

He won. 

He stands tall and proud.

Invincible.

Even if his world

never existed beyond

the corner of Clearfield and Kensington

He could protect the world.

He was The Phallic Samurai;

the one who fought off an entire army alone,

and he possessed

the Last Magic Sword.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

“Happy 

Birthday 

to You,” 

She whispered with grace—

Her warm breath

teased the folds 

of my anxious earlobe

providing 

a cool pleasant air 

to contrast my

rising temperature.

Her fingers

grazed my neck, 

then melted into

my shoulders. 

She traveled lower

squeezing onto my thighs, 

and eventually ending

at my knees.

She spread them wide

and began unwrapping 

my present. 

Our eyes locked 

as she sang another line—

My belt gripped in her hand. 

“Happy 

Birthday

to You.”

She let the leather snap playfully. 

I was caught in a trance. 

She was my everything—

Experienced, 

Confident,

Careful yet rough 

when I needed it;

My Marilyn Monroe. 

I was almost there

rounding the corner 

down that final stretch

of no return

until she stopped

without warning,

and waved off 

my confused look

with a bite of the lip.

A tease. 

She called the shots.  

I called off 

my guard. 

“Happy 

Birthday

Mr. President.”

Her sinful smile,

sent chills

to where I throbbed.

Her pupils

maintained control

over my hypnosis, 

and only when I acknowledged 

her power  

did she continue 

my re-election campaign.

She was hired instantly. 

I’d let her run 

all my campaigns

from this point forward. 

but then, 

she began 

really blowing my mind.

A sharpshooter 

with a tongue

hitting all the right spots

with precision. 

It happened quickly.

My body propelled 

forward involuntarily,

and I began to tense up.

Then she hit me with 

a second attempt, 

the one 

with her face hidden in my

grassy knoll, 

and it sent shockwaves 

around my world. 

My head tilted 

back and to the left.

and I flatlined. 

The rest became our

little history. 

In exactly 26.6 seconds

I was dead to her rights,

and she had my heart. 

My frosting hung 

from the edge of her lip, 

after she finished 

blowing out my candle.

She leaned back

holding

that sexy smile

while lighting a Cuban Cigar

and she blew her smoke

at my face with sedition.  

“Happy 

Birthday

to You.”

I guess there won’t be a second term

for this President.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

The bottle can cut you deep

without ever being broken.

A house torn to pieces

from within.

Behind its slighted walls,

my heart beats,

barely.

Falling ill to the woes,

I sip on jaded soup

only for it to worsen.   

Surviving in vain,

because fighting

for my life

is an endless endeavor,

and giving up seems

imminent.

…it is Imminent.

Giving up

is imminent.

A child’s cry

for hope.

Tears of sorrow

burdened into

a crusty old pillow,

my whimpers devoured

by the dark,

where shadows transform

into monsters,

and no night-light

will ever save me,

yet the fear of the dark lessens

when those the monsters

learn to weep

like me.

They sob just like me.

therefore, I must be a monster too.

So, we all weep together.

My soul

is a dead-end

street sign

ripped from the earth

covered in piss stains,

and spray paint

laying to rest in a ditch

to rot—

Now, there’s no warning for others

for what lies ahead.  

I reside at the end

of a cul-de-sac

where a house

was never a home,

but instead,

a graveyard

for a little boy

and his wishful thinking’s;

Where clear skies invite storms,

Where black clouds

block out sunsets,

and where nightmares

come to play.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Hope dangles just out of reach but always in clear view

encouraging us to run in place until we die, and so, we do.

Look at us

rodents racing

chasing tails

gnawing on

arsenic-laced

success.

How fancy!

Sprinting faster

circling nowhere

on a looped track

leading us back

to start again.

But it's all about that journey, right?

Hope

is a charcuterie board

with a torsion spring,

and we wash it all down

with sour curds

from “farm-raised” teats

the size of smokestacks.

What was once

good for your bones

now may cross them.

So, bottoms up and Bon Appetit!

It seems

we’ll all die early

having forgotten

to think for ourselves

because

we left our

anticoagulated

minds back

in elementary.

A lesson never learned

as a new litter is born every

two-hundred seventy days

and with every new wave,

heeded warnings

turn into echoes

of older mice

choking through foam

already too far gone

to realize hope was an illusion—

they never had a chance anyway.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Poke the bear.

Provoke me.

Wake me now

for I’ve slept too long.

Make my skin

lift off my bones,

and put a needle to my eye

daring me to blink

for within the beauty,

the art of war,

is where I begin to understand

or when I choose to take a stand.

Either outcome

ends the same.

Nothing is supposed to be easy.

There will be blowback.

Collateral Damage

is the casualty of war—

memories

of Innocent lives,

husbands forced

to leave their wives.

All will be lost

to the ruins

while you get lost in the paint

or dry your nose from huffing it—

both burn the same brain cells

as lighting a Molotov

because

thinking for yourself

and defending  

your rights

will dismantle the status quo

equally,

though, we can’t have a revolution

without a martyr to blame

so, light the fuse

at both ends.

Watch it all explode

around you.

and take in your Masterpiece.

…then Live forever.

©2023 Chris Sahdill

We're all riding

on this Merry-Go-Round

zipping through

space and time

losing our fucking minds

faster than we can find them.

God damn it's wild.

So, I say

instead of fighting the spin

any longer

let’s all turn into it

to see how quickly

we can make this bitch

roll off its rails

and send us flying

into other dimensions

because there’s nothing like

a swarm of kids

circling in the city pool

that’ll make our piss

turn into a maelstrom faster

and we can all agree,

at this point

somewhere else

is probably better—

maybe more peaceful too.

I call dibs

on the second dimension

where I can only

be judged on the logic of

length by width

and no extra bullshit.

I’ll find peace

in that simplicity

thank you very much.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I’m daydreaming of crackerjacks and temporary tattoos when the organ suddenly stops mid-song and the announcer's voice echoes throughout the stadium...

“Today’s game

is brought to you by

Liberty Dick Hot Dogs

offering

a two-for-one combo

on processed pig lips

and bleached buttholes.

Stop by your nearest

concession booth to get your

jumbo-sized

cancer cocks all day long.

For your convenience

they’ve been

pressure-cooked and formed

into steaming tubes of garbage

so, all you fatties who love

tossing America’s salad

can enjoy

your favorite pastime

uninhibited

while filling

your gaping pie holes

in one convenient bite.

To optimize your experience

we offer dump truck rides

to your limo-stretched seats,

à la carte delivery

of carbonated IVs,

and tiny pillows

for your mid-game naps

if of course,

you find yourself falling asleep.”

---

Section 117, row 10, seat 6.

I have a first-base view

to observe

my fellow Americans

like rats

in a barnyard

scurrying in and out

of sunlight,

while nibbling on rodenticide.

I too gnaw along with them

as my neck beads with sweat.

I lean to my wife

to discuss how the Romans

two-thousand years ago

designed a special shade

for their arenas

to protect their patrons from the sun

and how this stadium’s engineers

obviously dropped the ball.

The crackle of a microphone

switching on

from the off-key-never-made-it-big-weekend singer

alerts our eyes to the limp-dick flag

draped over a thirty-foot pole

which remains stagnant in the summer heat,

but we rise anyways

and our brainwashed hats cover our tits—

some fake, some flat, and some men’s.

It’s not long before we finish

circle-jerking freedom

onto the backs of those in front of us

and we seat ourselves

in preparation for filling our faces

with a pair of dogs

and a bucket of fries—

our savory salute

to the fallen soldiers

granting us today’s opportunity.

Next to me

the crazy lady with season tickets

seems more concerned about where I worship

rather than the score

or my hopes of eating in quiet.

So, I tell her

"I worship between my woman's legs,"

and now

I feel I need God more than ever.

I also assume her new-found silence

means she’s praying for me,

but doubt it’ll work.

Behind me, the nearest smoking section

turns into a ticking time bomb

as a group of hover-round rough riders

plugged into oxygen tanks

balance the thin line between life and death

while lighting cigarettes for one another.

Unfortunately for us,

we are close enough

to take on some shrapnel

if it all goes south.

A young mother passes by

shoving ice cream smoothies

down her toddler's throat

preparing him

to be among the next generation

of baseball fans,

and in a full-circle irony

her child's future is foreshadowed,

when a fat man in row three

chokes on a bite

taken too large

to swallow

only to chew it back down again

after being donkey-punched

by someone trying to save him,

and I don’t blame him,

because these hot dogs have gotten fucking expensive.

I nod in approval

as I look around

thinking

Fuck yeah,

this is Freedom

and as sick as it is,

I’m proud,

yet at the same time

I’m entirely scared

of our future

because if we’re ever invaded,

America is certainly fucked.

But my thoughts are interrupted

by the crack of a bat

and a foul ball

ascending just above my section.

It blocks the sun for only a moment,

and it's then that I declare

this fucker’s mine!

If I’ve done one thing right with my life,

is that I’m a man of my word

even to myself,

so, I pull the wild cherry IV from my arm,

toss the spud bucket to my old lady,

and jump out of my seat

toward destiny.

I push through the cult lady

still praying for my soul

somersault over

the hoover-round gang

coughing up their remaining lungs

and extend my arm high toward the sky

ready to receive

the American Dream

until I’m surrounded

by short feeble bodies

tugging at my clothes

and fighting for position against me.

But I'm unfazed,

determined,

and much taller.

I shrug them off

standing strong for my country

and hold my ground

like the Ft. McHenry banner

the woman just sang about

and I follow the ball

until it lands into my greasy palms

over a half dozen disappointed heads.

What a win!

To celebrate,

I raise a single hand showing off the stitches,

inviting the crowd

to honor my victory alongside me,

but when there are no cheers

I’m forced to savor it alone

and I do,

but It's then that I notice

everyone scouring at me with anticipation,

as if I am supposed too

give up my hard-earned prize,

to one of these failed loser kids.

Fuck them!

I grip my souvenir with pride

while being followed to my seat

by boos from the stadium

attempting to shame me into submission,

but I have no shame—

I am an American.

The best thing for those kids

is to learn how to fight for what they want

earn what they get,

and that there are no participation trophies in life.

If anything,

I am an American Hero.

You can all thank me later.

…and when I get home

I’ll throw this token of triumph

into the backyard

for my dog to chew on,

because I prefer hockey

and think baseball is shit.

Plus, I was never rooting

for the home team anyway.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Fingers through fog

hoping for a clearer image.

I know what I look like, 

or used to look like,

but I feel different now.

I wonder if I’ve changed

or am I the same old deadbeat 

wearing a different mask 

trying to deceive everyone 

including myself.

The answer is never clear. 

So, I’ll have to wait 

until the moisture dries up.

My only problem is, 

the shower is always on. 

©2023 Chris Sadhill

When steel meets pine

false realities will splinter,

revealing the truth in everything,

thus, exposing the lies.

I see you now

you Fake Fuck,

you disillusioned marionette,

thrilled to have that hand jammed

so deep in your ass

you climax

while screaming out

for your AI “daddy.”

Never the writer

but always the receiver,

passing it off

like you stumbled upon greatness,

You Fake Fucking Woodchuck,

I’m on to you!

Mirror mirror

of your own deceit

pound another dishonored medal

into your wooden chest

and pretend to wince

at the hypothesized pain

you assume a “real boy” would endure.

Lean lifelessly against the wall

you puppet,

head cocked,

expression locked,

and useless

without a hand to tickle your taint

and feed you your words,

knowing the blood stains

smeared in the reflection

are hallucinations

of a dishonest mannequin’s pipe dream—

all strings attached

of course.

And when you finally ask

who’s the fairest one of all,

you’ll watch yourself

mouthing someone else’s name

for Alexa doesn’t lie,

because the written coding

designed by some other guy

told you so.

Geppetto should have

thrown you into the mill

and chopped you into scraps

because you’d be more useful as kindling

rather a phony typist

blowing smoke up our asses.

Though, they do say

where there’s smoke…

…but I tend to say Fuck it,

let me light the fire myself.

I’m on to you!

I’ve read you now,

and for a moment

I even championed you,

tipping my Stetson in solidarity,

cheering on an “up-and-comer,”

yet, it was never “You” was it?

You imposter!

How unoriginal of you

to use software to “fit in”

with a group of

living breathing Artists

standing out

solely because

of their unparalleled creativity

and beautiful minds,

forging unique and honest works

you can’t even dream of.

You’re jealous, aren’t you?

Envy leads people to do stupid things,

I get it,

but if you think for one moment

you’re getting away

with using AI

as your “Ghost Writer,”

you can take a hard

left turn

at the corner of Fuck off

and I hope you burn, pussy!

Now that I’ve

run the diagnostics

following your mile-long nose

down the rabbit hole

I’ll stop at nothing

until the wrongs

have been rectified

and we’re cleansed of your kind.

I will personally ensure

you’re exposed

blacklisted,

then shunned,

and dragged through the streets

of every writing community

for the next ten years,

I’m on to you!

Creativity is our religion,

our words form the bible,

and this community is our church,

and you just barged onto our holy ground

instantly making yourself

the antichrist.

Soon, you’ll be

long gone and forgotten

faster than a horse and buggy late

for an Ohioan excommunication

and you’ll burn at the stake

I gored you with

in front of the entire congregation

spitting on your mangled flesh,

while you scream silently

waiting for the words

to talk your way out of it

but they'll never come

because you forgot

you needed a prompt

to speak them.

I’m on to you!

Look at you,

you Fake Fucking woodchuck,

living on your

computer-aided

“Life-Support”

in a horrible attempt

to humanize yourself,

to be more like us,

to feel what it’s like

to have an actual heartbeat,

that has felt the pain of love,

and the grace found in death,

but you know the truth, don’t you?

There is no amount of one’s and zero’s

that’ll ever make you “feel real,”

and now that I’m on to you

I’ll gladly pull the plug for you

and watch you wither away

fading into the shadows

of that woodpile in the corner

where you belong.

I’m on to you!

How well do you sleep

knowing you’ll never measure up

to the authenticity

or vibrancy,

or the pure inventiveness

and explosiveness,

of even the most average artists?

I suspect, not that great!

And if by some miracle

you are sleeping well,

which I hope you’re not,

I vow here and now

to become that neck fat,

that swollen tongue apnea

in the back of your throat,

that suffocating “Hag”

weighing on your chest

ensuring you choke yourself awake

every few moments

back into my living nightmare

exhausting yourself

more and more,

deeper and deeper,

until you’re falling forever

into a reoccurring sickness.

I will be the Krueger of your dreams,

playing your fear as a re-run

for my amusement

leaving you afraid to fall asleep

and with every gasp, you struggle

to pull out of thin air

you’ll be thinking of me.

It's then, you’ll realize without a doubt

I’m onto you.

and you’ll wonder how I know

and how I found out,

but you’ll be too fucking tired

to do anything about it

because I’ll see to it that you’re deprived.

The kind of deprivation

that drives one

into a padded chamber

and all you’ll hear

in your unimaginative,

uninspiring,

Fake Fucking head

will be

I’m onto you!

I’m onto you

I’m onto you

and I’ll be the whispers scratching at your ears

until you choose to leave this precious church

or I until choose to expose you…

I’m onto you!

I’m onto you

I’m onto you

Sleep well you “Fake Fuck.”

Sleep well knowing

that with every written lie you pass off as your own,

your nose will be exposed to greater lengths,

and a woodchuck never chucks wood,

never has and never will,

so be the groundhog you are,

scurry away to make your home elsewhere,

or I’ll dig your new hole myself.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Cheeks holding back tears.

Like a dam blocking the flow.

I’m a man-made lake.   

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Parasitic Press 

printing Lies

and promising prospective futures

persuading the naïve, 

and pooping on palpable creators.  

Leeches feeding 

off artists,

who starve themselves

preserving their chances to share

a single masterpiece,

surviving only

off the last bits of nutrients,

they consumed 

more than a month ago,  

and you, 

the parasitic worm, 

the bloodsucking fucks, 

the vampiric assholes,

I doubt you sleep at night, 

spending more time 

creating ways to steal, lie, and cheat

than making your own content.

You should be hung out to dry

on my Clothesline. 

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Everything is nothing 

and nothing 

is everything, 

and wanting everything 

leads you to discover nothing—

Vice Versa. 

So, what’s the point 

in trying 

if letting shit happen 

willy-nilly 

is the key to it all? 

There is no point. 

Things just are, 

and then there’s us 

spinning on a bowling ball 

down a dark endless alley 

on any given Saturday night,

next to the rest 

of your neighborly

cosmic glow-tards,

and if that’s the case, 

you might as well 

pull up a lawn chair 

in the middle of the road 

sipping your favorite 

fermented drink, 

and aim your gun 

at the skies, 

tempting the false gods 

who judge you 

to prove themselves 

once and for all.

Be sure to empty that clip 

and hope you hit one—

Make it a bloody-red sky. 

Make it rain tears from heaven 

and go buck-fucking wild

because after all, 

Freddie Mercury said it best—

Anyway, the wind blows 

nothing really matters.

Nothing really matters to me.

Now isn’t that everything 

wrapped up 

in the beauty of nothing? 

Isn’t that the chaos of life itself?

Well, it is 

until the dipshit down the road 

calls the cops on your new-found revelation, 

and you hear the sirens just over the hill— 

Fucking people,

ruin everything. 

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I went out to pick you flowers

only to remember you were deathly allergic 

only to remember why I went out in the first place, 

to pick you flowers. 

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Balls in the air. 

Juggler of emotions.

I'm torn between ending it all 

and starting over again,

because the end of a muzzle seems like a headache, 

but also, the pill.

I pace until noon, then realize it's midnight.

No sleep until the witching hour, 

for it is where I'm most awake.

“Eat something, you bastard,” they say, 

yet I'm not hungry for what's on their menu—

peanut butter on bread spread unevenly. 

No milk.

A moonlit snack becomes a meal. 

A tear becomes a bath.

A thought becomes another episode I must binge 

until its very end.

What a cliffhanger—

finally, a feast I can eat. 

Hungry, for more.

I'm tortured and mocked by my internal struggle,

but I don’t want to miss the commercials, 

because there could be something I want to buy.

I offer a facelift in the mirror. 

Then wash away its filth.

All the voices speak the same language, 

yet they’re foreign to me, 

and I don’t understand them, but I listen anyway 

because the sound of silence is deafening;

translated captions will have to do.

“Walk it off, you’ll be fine,” they say, 

yet when I do so, 

the thorn bushes outside scrape my skin, 

tearing and pulling at my meaningless flesh.

My insides are now exposed, 

and I lock the door for protection.

Why would they encourage me knowing I'd fail?

Am I merely a vessel for their amusement, until the carnival closes down?

They make me wear a red nose. 

Am I their clown?

I dance, 

I sing, 

I play. 

I must entertain them until they are bored with me.

Only then, 

bloody, broken, and tired can I wipe away the paint.

I fall asleep realizing

I was never really, awake…

©2024 Chris Sadhill

The electric sizzle of thy emerald skies, 

reminds me of her tonight. 

So, I drink to see her yet again, 

a brush with death I invite.

If I may, and if I will,

close that fatal deal.

With her again I shall promptly be. 

The aurora of her eyes, I steal. 

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Cinderblock to the bottom.

The rope unravels portside. 

Even young ones plunge deep, 

but they die differently.

Scared kids make undoubtable sounds.  

and I inhale the melodious harmony in their fear.  

Each sings a lullaby.

The kind read to them each night in bed.

Maybe it comforts them 

because soon they’ll fall asleep, 

but every child does it the same way.

They recite a few words just as I push them over, 

And their lungs swallow the lake.

At first, they kick and thrash.

They even grab at the skiff’s edge.

Water wings are a day late for these angels.

I pull at their fingers until they break or let go.  

Cries send ripples across the glass, 

but nothing is ever heard this vast. 

Thirty-six acres private and pristine.  

The concrete anchor tugs hard at their feet. 

Down the drain, they go. 

Their screams drown with them. 

Muffled becomes quiet,

but not for a silent night, 

as I can hear them singing their bedtime stories of silt.

A perpetual rhyme that is soothing, 

I let it play on repeat until I too fall asleep.

All my little children

live at the bottom of Tremont Lake.

What was once a summer camp of excitement,

is now a promise fulfilled, but one they cannot escape.

©2023 Chris Sadhill   

Death is simple—you die.

To speculate otherwise 

is a waste of time,

as the truth will be revealed 

when your consciousness transforms.

Whatever the hell that means.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

“There’s a black cloud hovering over us kid, and like me, 

it’ll follow you wherever you go…get used to it…”

An archfiend smog

is preying upon my soul,

and like Mother warned 

my days will be plagued 

by a curse, she burdened onto me

without consent.

I tried severing it, 

but the more I rip and pull, 

the deeper it burrows

like a desperate tick.

I’m a zombie vagabond

waking only to my requiem nightmare,

and I’m fucking sick of 

the maggots clawing at my face

while buried neck-deep in shit 

just waiting around to die.  

Scarred

well before I abandoned the womb;

Born from a castaway,

hardly sixteen.

A child cradling a child 

who wasn’t a miss-carriage

this time around.

I carried the bitterness of a mother,

once a twice-raped girl,

and wore her burdens just above my sleeve.

I earned that scout badge in a hospital bed

on a forgettable November morning. 

A Scorpio with a stinger who has an affinity for being a prick,

and pre-loaded with a poison-coated tip for good measure.

I was born to fight or die trying 

before I ever lived to see my first day. 

I too felt raped.

My cards were dealt 

upon the tables of inmates,

and I was taught how to play the game 

before I knew how to hold‘em. 

Forced to visit a prisoned father,

a narcissistic-arsonist;

A robber with a gun. 

I was behind bars before I was behind bars—

A court-ordered indoctrination

became a baptism by fire.   

TV screens and basketball games,

reclining chairs, and free food 

didn’t look all that bad at 38 inches.  

I was shown where men go to die, 

and it looked a hell of a lot nicer than where I was living. 

The world owed me everything

yet, its dues remained unpaid.

I binged cabinet doors and refrigerator drawers on the government’s dime

and drank my mother’s milk 

she’d laced with Southern Comfort and cigarettes

to save money.

Many nights, she avoided a bathroom grave,

while I held her head above the drowning line. 

I flushed the disgrace and wiped chunks from her face 

while she slept on a linoleum bed,  

then I scarfed down mental health issues for supper—

Never wasting the generous leftovers for breakfast. 

Was this nature, or nurture, 

or is this fucking “black cloud” actually real?

I was taught the comforts of living near death 

so, I never needed to get a life.  

I knelt before the gateway, 

but it was vaster than curiosity itself

and I hadn’t a grip, so it sucked me in.

No sky to part, no lucid light—only a jade Cumulonimbus. 

Sunny days became head-rolls on moonlit sidewalks. 

Cocktails of uppers and downers, chasers and shooters, X and sex—

I was a night jackal inviting a sunrise I never longed to see

because chasing dealers with baseball bats

and paying whores with fake hash seemed more exciting

then a god-damned repeating dot on the horizon—

until all I saw were dots on the horizon. 

Darkness envelops those who invite it to dinner, and it’s hungry—

A jackal only bites a turned back, sometimes just for the taste,

until one day you’re startled back to life choking on vomit, 

while someone else holds your head above that toilet swirl, 

and only then do you rub elbows with your mother.  

Sometimes it takes having to tango with death, 

to appreciate the waltz of life.    

For years I was just waiting around to die 

and I suppose I did… 

…but even death didn’t want me. 

So here I am. 

It’s just me and this Jade cloud suspended above.

It’s my only certainty.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Magic mirrors

only exist in fairytales.

Here,

there’s no wisdom hidden within the glass,

or insincerity.

Yet I still stare,

waiting for something miraculous

to reveal itself;

it never does.

The person

glaring back

is just as fucked up,

as scared,

and as confused

about the future

as I am.

I say,

fuck that guy.

He’s no help to me either.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Children 

of the world

shall call me Daddy, 

as I’ve decided 

on becoming a priest

so, I can finally tell my lies

without anyone questioning me.

Hold onto my every word

as if I am God himself,

and I’ll offer you penance from the pulpit

making you curtsy before me

like obedient sheep.

I am merely a shepherd 

controlling his flock—

Your only job is to baa. 

Cry your tears at the altar

into the kneeler trough

so, I can later bless

and bathe your babies in it.  

Offer me your starving tongues 

on Sundays, 

then confess your darkest secrets 

the other SIX.

We are all but sinners, 

but I am a God among Men.

If he made me in his image, 

then why shouldn’t I be worshipped?

SIX Hail Mary’s 

and a guaranteed seat in heaven 

just for me

because I wear this costume

and you don’t.

Forgive me lord, 

for I am the father

who hath sinned 

too many times,

trading one black suit 

for another, 

and thus, murdering myself.

I may have violated commandment SIX, 

but never forget 

that the filtered city waters

flowing through this confession throne

will receive a lever flush 

washing away my filth

by the baptism 

blessed on me 

in your name, 

as if it never happened.

Thanks for that.

Amen—

and Winky Face! 

I am but reborn and righteous now,

refreshed and clean,

living tax-free and untouchable,

and now

I AM YOUR GOD.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Jammed into a sardine can

ripping through the sky, 

no one asked me 

if I favored cock or pussy

for over two hours—

I guess it was either altitude sickness

or they didn’t give a shit.  

We all shared our misery the same,

hating the ungrateful little bastards 

kicking our seats 

more than each other’s sexual orientations.  

And when we lowered beneath the clouds

and when Florida revealed itself, 

I raised my finger to the window

and to the governor, 

to offer a greeting from America.

According to Disney

my trip was soon to begin

in the Gayest place on earth. 

©2023 Chris Sadhill     

Instead of cucumbers

I place pickles over my eyes

because I prefer to think that self-induced agony

makes me stronger and more resilient.

I’m a glutton for punishment,

so, I lay back and let the brine work its way in,

never wincing, never offering a single reaction to its burn.

The cohesion of pickle juice and natural saline

works its way toward my brain

like a starving parasite eating its last meal.

I welcome this torture

because I find comfort in pain

and already know the sting will fade away in time,

or, I’ll just become too numb to feel it.

After all, pain is more familiar than love,

which for me is like love,

because it’s always there for me even when I never need it—

I deeply appreciate its loyalty and commitment,

and though it’s not reciprocated, it’s unconditional.

I light a candle to unwind.

A flickering flame soothes my unrest.

Lavender releases from the wax prison it was held in,

but still, I prefer the Sulphur of a match

over a deceased flower’s final excrement

because the aroma of hell is how I relax.

Dead Flowers and hell. They’re both the same anyways, right?

Everything revolves around death and ends in death.

Even while the oil bleeds out of an unsuspecting aromatic herb,

its beautiful aroma is squeezed from its last breath.

So, everything is resolved in death.

There is only one place for us in the end. For me, it’s hell.

So, I decided to get there sooner by living in one.

I wonder if they can make a candle that smells like hell.

Do you think they can extract the essence of a decaying body

and place it in a wax jar like they did that Lavandula?

I flip on a tune,

to set the mood with my favorite soundscape—

A waterfall crashing into a rainforest.

Now that’s a sound I can drown myself in.

It spills down from three thousand feet above

and smothers me like I'm being waterboarded by nature.

How interesting that water gives life, yet can so easily take it away.

Angel Falls is not my guardian protector,

but it is a fallen angel I must protect and guard

because she lifts me up closer to heaven than I’ve ever been,

then drops me back down to earth where I guess I belong. For now.

I place a warm rag over my face to simulate the Amazonian climate,

Then turn on the faucet to full blast

so, I can practice how to breathe.

No gills mean there’s a struggle,

but a struggle is what I crave.

With every gulp of oxygen I lose, my existence fades,

and I start to appreciate all the small things a little more.

Who knew being closer to death,

helps you love life a little better?

Why can’t I just get there on my own instead of forcing it?

Am I fucked up for living this way,

or is living this way how I fuck?

The timer blares a turbulent cry,

and my deprivation is complete.

While the tank opens to birth me back into reality,

I can’t help but wonder,

If I am reflecting on thoughts of death because I want it,

or if it’s how I cope with knowing the fate of humanity.

The salty bath I floated in slides off me like water repels oil,

like cheaters repel love.

and like humans repel humans.

I rinse off my secret thoughts in the shower,

dry off self-hatred with a towel,

then put on a costume of lies so I may enter the world,

and on the way out I schedule another visit

to my torture spa.

I can’t wait to live again,

next month.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I was always here,

a hallstand castaway,

collecting dust.

An afterthought—

a convenient illusion 

rather than a viable solution,

a witness to your every storm. 

"Maybe tomorrow,"

you’d say

but never did you reach for me, 

never did you think

to shield yourself 

from the downpour 

of that melancholy sky 

or shade your pallid skin 

from the searing sun.

Why? 

Why’d you choose 

getting wet and sunburned 

over my simple shelter? 

Why’d you let the world 

drench and scorch you

when I was always here?

Instead,

they found you

face down, 

having suffocated in a cocktail 

of tears and sweat 

and a pond of puke curbside

with enough half-chewed pills to down a steer;

a cobblestone grave.

Your body glistened in the rain,

under neon lights 

pixie dust clinging to your nostrils, 

fresh enough to sniff again 

if you were 

still alive.

If you were still alive.

I was

always here

but you never reached for me, 

so, you drowned.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Since our inception

we’ve been her crops,

her food source,

the sustenance for her survival,

and when we are buried, we feed her,

but we are too blind to see it—

Too naïve to the complexity of her brilliance.

Her cultivation is endless.

She’s a gardener of man—A reaper of souls.

In fact, she’s preparing us right now.

With every harvest, we grow stronger.

Generations are living longer.

We are more resilient and healthier than ever,

but that’s not our accomplishment, it’s hers. She allows us to thrive.

Humans are simply weeds, and weeds spread like wildfire if left untamed,

but untamed is by her design and wildfires always nourish—in the end.

After all, we are grass that produces a plentiful yield.

Our evolution is owed to breeding,

gene-splicing, and mixing our varieties.

We are stirred but not shaken—

A cocktail served over the slowly melting ice cube of time.

We are clones of clones until the imperfections are removed,

and our imperfections are abundant, but time is infinite.

She’s patient, watchful, and curious, but mostly manipulative,

and like any good manipulator, the victim never knows.

We are perfect horticulture made of blood and bones—bound by flesh,

and wrapped in a thick bark of falsities.

Our fertilizer is the fecal perspectives defecating out our ignorant mouths,

and she waters us with our depressed tears and perspired anxiety.

For those reasons, we are low maintenance. Perpetual and Self-Feeding.

We are her plants, mutating and adapting,

yet she grows us to think we’re superior to all life on Earth,

because keeping our ego gene intact without severing,

makes us prisoners of our own devices.

It’s our fatal flaw, our demise, and she sits back watching; Laughing; Pondering.

We live in a world where we think we’re the apex predator,

but she puts that notion into check at any given moment 

and humbles us often.

As the planet’s temperature rises,

we approach the final reaping.

We are but frogs, slow-cooking in her kettle for a delicious meal—

the final course,

and her dinner table is already set.

When the boiling is complete,

she’ll eat until she’s ripping at the seams,

and whoever is left will be stacked and organized alphabetically in her soiled pantry.

We will become her stored leftovers for eternity.

Extinction is imminent.

How imminent depends on how hungry she really is,

and Mother Nature is one fat merciless bitch.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

You stand behind me;

Blood dripping off your switchblade.

Drops of warmth splatter atop frozen cement.

Trust shattered like my rib-caged bones;

Air becomes harder to breathe.

And for what—so you could fulfill a selfish desire?

Accomplishing such a feat means,

you bruised me too many times to count.

I took it. I took it some more, and I fucking took it some more.

I should have trusted myself long ago, but didn’t,

and where did it lead me?

I let you in close enough to cut the wind from my sails,

and now my canvas runs red.

You arrogant prick. You ignorant ass!

You’ll never realize the damage you created,

as you repeatedly kicked sand into my eyes.

A drawn line that was clearly defined, vanishes,

until I am so blinded by pain,

it’s transformed into rage.

If you wanna feel my heat, I’ll show you how to burn.

If you wanna know how I feel, I’ll drown you in a perspired dream,

only to watch you dehydrate from exhaustion,

then devour your soul when you are weak and thirsty.

You poked a sleeping bear and I am now roused,

but instead of being your monster,

I will exit your life faster than a shooting star racing through your darkest sky,

and leave you empty and abandoned in a forest of nightmares,

to greet your demons and meet your devil.

They will take care of my light work,

while I sit back and enjoy the sunrise,

sipping on a cocktail of your pitiful tears.

Your taste may be awful and bitter,

but knowing that you are dried and withered because of it

is worth every gulp.

So, I drink you down slowly to savor,

your arrival in hell.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

Smoke traces the curves of my steering wheel.

I watch her undress through the sheer, curtains flowing.

Engine hushed; Every whisper becomes profound.

Waiting for the cover of darkness, and for her to drift asleep.

Then she sleeps.

Door latch opens, Security breached.

Stairwell.

Hallway.

Bedroom.

I inhale her hair while she dreams, don’t mind me.

The crisp fragrance of a clipped keepsake,

fills my pocket for another day.

Back to business, I must go.

A cocktail on a rag leads to a drowsy drag.

Car ride out of town, tied and bound.

A shovel

A pit.

Wiping the sweat as I spit.

I break for a swig, then draw a puff from my cig.

A key turned; my trunk exposed.

Hello Gorgeous—She squirms as she wakes.

She wiggles and shakes; Biting at her tape.

A shoulder ride, then she’s tossed inside.

Dirt piled on, six feet under.

“I lay you to rest my love.”

Minutes of air.

How will she use it,

to breathe, cry, or yell for help?

But they won’t hear her scream.

Not in these woods.

Not as I drive away.

They won’t hear her muffled shrieks.

Maybe now, she’ll remember me.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

You are wretched and disgusting. 

So befouled that even maggots leave you to rot. 

Layers of shit painted on that pretty face,

and here I thought you were a natural beauty.

Why did you hide behind a mask of shame?

Was it for the allure of a secret admirer?

Was it self-hate or peer pressure, 

that caused your rampant slather 

of putrid lotion to soak into your skin?

The other day I waited for a coffee and a bagel three orders back. 

Your perfume smelled so delicious I forgot my breakfast order.  

I couldn’t help but sniff you up as you passed by me.

So, I trailed your scent like a cartoon character out the door.  

A hint of citrus still lingered upon your neck,

a smell that turned into a taste I thought I’d crave, 

but now it’s just bad seasoning,

and all the good flavor is amalgamated,

with the sting of chemicals upon my tongue. 

Your perfect flesh has become rodenticide,

and I’m a rat who loves to nibble.

Piece by piece I chew on you hoping for a bite I can swallow,

but I can’t help but spit you out. 

Rancid meat cannot sustain me for long, 

and I am a man of persistence.  

This highly anticipated meal leads to a wasted plate.

A letdown for a proper man who brings his own cutlery.  

Even your feet motivate this Yelp review to get one star, 

and I am the fetish type.

Your nails are painted croutons crunching between teeth, 

served on a skin and cartilage salad;  

The spray tan dressing is just too bitter to eat. 

Your hair is my second course; 

Long and thin spaghetti. 

I swirl a fork of you upon a spoon 

as if you’re dancing alone in the spotlight and I am your audience. 

Then I raise you up close enough to taste,

but who knew hairspray parmesan could ruin a meal.

I wanted to savor you. 

I wanted to serve you on a silver platter and worship every part of your body.

I needed you as nature intended, as God intended. 

Yes, as evil as I am I still believe in Him, because He made you.     

But your saddened heart spread a disease of insecurity,

and you attempted to make up for all those uncertainties,

by ruining all your best parts. 

It should be a sin what you did to yourself. 

You have become inedible;

Intolerable to eat.  

and now you left a lonely cannibal to face his worst fear, 

being hungry.  

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I fear

I’m projecting my aspirations

onto a backdrop 

too wrinkled with time,

where all versions of me,

play across my face at once

skewing my image,

and never revealing a clear picture

of reality.

Everyone eats their 

popcorn and Skittles

waiting for a tragedy to unfold,

and I eat right along with them

knowing I've directed this screenplay before

aware of what's coming next. 

Hollywood is full of copycats and wannabes.

Am I not just a proxy

wearing a different costume?

Why do I feel I’ve failed

before the opening credits have finished

or feel like an imposter 

every time I start something new?

Will this movie ever conclude

or am I just a series of short openers 

with no endings until I die?

Who then will write the credits

or will they forever be blank?

©2023 Chris Sadhill

You’re not the first

to place an asterisk

on a challenge

that inhibits

a writer’s voice,

attempting to define

our oratorical freedoms,

while pushing that

fluffy-puff lifestyle

deeper down our throats

until they overfill,

and it starts

dripping down our screens

as if it’s a

“Puritanical Vibes Only”

digital bukkake.

If you want clean,

then define it

because being afraid to get dirty

is simply a bitch move.

None of you

“Keep it cleaners”

ever describes the “Terms”

to appease your weakened guts,

or your gluten-free diets,

and your Lacto-intolerant

nervous systems,

as if we’re supposed to read

your goddamned minds

or want to mollify your

modern-made medical maladies.

You’re too feeble

to stand for your morals,

so, you foist them at us

from your highfalutin

gaming chair,

shit flinging out your mouth

fed directly from your ass

like our evolutionary cousins

without the responsibility

of ever cleaning it up.

You’re too malnourished

to complete a thought,

never deciding

between red vs. blue

so, you playfully offer purple

in exchange for likes or support

bolstered by parenthesis

to increase its emphasis

assuming we give a shit.

We don’t.

Regardless if you have a dick

or a pussy

or both,

or none

what matters here

is writing.

We offer love and support,

for all kinds

in this community,

but it seems you’re too scared

to let the dogs out,

why?

Because you’re afraid

of a little bite,

afraid of the truth,

afraid to share

the secret parts of you

so out of fear

for a little snarling,

you attempt to tame

other people’s written works

as if you’re a

licensed dog trainer.

Well, good luck darling

because I’ll never be leashed.

Now, don’t get those whitey tighties

in a bunch quite yet,

because you’ll be needing them later

to carry your loosened shit

to the same dumpster

I’m soon setting fire to,

because milk is what I’m bringing

as I force you to choke on sourdough.

I hope you’re still allergic

because my intended shock

is guaranteed to cause anaphylaxis.

So, settle in

buckle up,

grab an Epi

and put on your safety helmet

cause this ride

is about to get filthy.

“Be nice,

Keep it clean,

No tits or ass

or swear words please…”

Fuck that!

Fuck all of that!

and fuck you for trying.

This is real life,

not some fairytale love story

written for all of Walt’s children.

What are we

re-writing the “bible”?

Hell, even that book

has more than fifty shades of incest

and I’d put down money

that Jesus swore like a sailor

when they pinned him to the cross.

And there’s no way Eve

didn’t have a rack for days

that made Adam

push down his cock obsessively

trying to hide his hard-on.

Why do you think they covered up

with leaves?

He was probably the first

to tuck between his legs too.

And on the seventh day,

they fucked.

Get over it.

How else did we get here?

Hell, my wife is

probably a thousand cousins removed,

and we go at it twice a week,

minimum.

I guess I’m more religious than you.

Maybe you should keep it clean.

I know I do,

right after I’m done.

I bet you’re wondering

why I am so compelled

to participate

if I’m this “irritated”

at the parameters given.

Yes, it's true

I don’t have to engage,

but where’s the fun in that?

With all these

wishy-washy

ideals and morals,

faltered opinions,

and mouth-sexing religions

being worn like patches

to our little motorbike gangs

flying colors

and throwing crooked hand signals

high into the air,

as unchallenged threats

to others

who are different from our own,

I too may as well

wave my piece around

and shoot off

my unfiltered mouth.

So, Bang, Bang boogie.

Watch me empty a clip

for my homies

and I’ll force you to dance

in the dust

of my lead.

Forgive me

for pondering your reason

for what seems an imitative

and ignorant attempt

at stifling our written words.

Is it that you’re

a spoiled suburban bein

being choked off

by your luxury knitted cardigan

as you black out

losing all sense of reality

while staring down your nose

at “us” regular folk

who are struggling

to get a word in edge-wise?

or

Are you more of the freaky type,

studying the pleasures of degradation

while placing a jewel of decoration

up your ass?

How does the added pressure

feel from my demeaning tempered glass?

or

Was I right “in the beginning”

like the great book of Genesis,

that you are in fact

a bible-thumping prudish bitch,

who has yet to learn

where to find

his or her special parts?

Maybe you’re waiting until marriage.

Maybe life's explicit details

are too much for you to handle,

but for us,

it's just life,

and we live it,

then we write about it.

You wrote that you’re a beginner

who wants to improve,

but how can you grow

without being open-minded enough

to handle a little wordplay

or some friendly banter

when you ask us to troll you?

You can’t have it both ways,

sorry.

Sometimes you gotta get sunburnt

to strengthen the skin

and to do that

you need to go outside

and live a little.

You shouldn’t be afraid

of how the nail will feel,

but instead,

if you are worth the nail in the first place

because if you’re lucky enough,

someone was listening,

and you can only hope

your message

was important enough

to bring the hammer.

Being hung out to dry

should be an honor,

and as a writer

that’s how I hope to die.

Odin Awaits me

at the gates of Valhǫl

as I float upon the burning sea of my paper

from the war of my words

I died

and thus,

I ascend.

Remember,

you asked for this

Three-Billy-Goats-Gruff roasting,

just don’t forget

in my version,

the troll eats.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I erupted from the womb as hot lava,

but after meeting the world,

I hardened to stone.

I am the hill

who became a mountain,

formed by the convergence

of misery and neglect colliding—

a tectonic shift

of a child’s happiness turned to sorrow

because daily letdowns and growing up too fast

were the only scraps collecting mold in the back of the fridge,

while hope was found three packages into a box of Swiss Rolls.

I am the hill

who became a mountain,

uplifted by a fatherless household

governed by a mother's madness,

and the liquid fire of Southern Comfort

bubbling like magma from the mouth of that seismic slut,

of late nights holding her head over toilets

preventing her sulfuric geysers from burning holes in the rug,

and a revolving door shaped like her worn-out cunt

making it impossible to fall asleep on school nights.

I am the hill

who became a mountain,

whose line in the sand became a six-thousand-mile fracture through my existence—

of scar tissue crusted over scar tissue that never healed,

of the aftershocks, the tremors,

or the symptomatic palpitations of anxiety and depression,

increasing the probability I'm a hypochondriac,

and certifying I'm too cheap to pay for therapy

because living poor is the state of mind I carried with me,

and downing pills the size of cake slices is how I medicate.

I am a hill

who became a mountain

but emerged a Volcano after years of lying dormant.

The world made me unstable.

My vents split into fissures having nowhere to blow off steam.

My body bulges at the center and the ground trembles beneath.

Some called me a sleeping giant, others a sad hill,

but Vesuvius was once a hill too.

Unlike him, I’m no city killer,

I’m a world destroyer,

and now I’m awake!

When I blow

it’ll be further reaching than Krakatau,

deadlier than Tambora,

and more devastating than the prediction of Yellowstone.

The seas will rise at my bidding into an impenetrable wall

where no ark, nor any god will ever save you.

The ground will collapse into the netherworld,

and I will scorch the skies with hellfire,

burning every naysayer and nonbeliever under my infernal blanket.

I’ll heave pyroclasts in every direction, covering mankind in fifty feet of ash,

and watch them drown in my disgust for humanity under an ocean of grey

as their fate is cemented by eternal suffering.

When I blow,

it'll be the new Big Bang—

it’ll be the end of everything

and the beginning of it all.

…and to think I was created,

and there’s another version of me that could've been

a happier hill,

a loving hill,

rarely a sad hill—

the one who lived peacefully in a world

where everybody...

...survived.

©2024 Chris Sadhill

A newcomer arrives.

A foreigner from an unknown place

unrecognizable to your own—

"an alien."

Immediately interpreted

to be an invader of your world—

an enemy that must be destroyed,

no curiosities,

No questions asked,

no consideration.

Let’s kill it! you think,

because you’re a person of action.

You don’t dilly-dally.

You nod your head with reassurance,

for yourself.

It’s better to act now and ask later.

Its intentions are unknown.

Even if you would be better off in the end

by not killing it,

you scatter shots in its direction

regardless

until the magazine is empty.

Its body collapses,

muscles quivering,

then motionless and still—

its temperature

equalizing with the cold tiles on the floor.

Only then,

do you walk over to investigate it—

offering a single nudge with your foot.

Only then

do you inquire about its beginning,

its life story, and the journey it took to get here.

and only then

do you care that it had a name,

a heartbeat, and a family.

but only then,

is it too late to have that conversation

because you cast the first stone

as a bullet to the brain

and now its voice is forever sealed

behind its rigor-mortised lips.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill

Carried away

with exhaust fumes

was my sister

and Childhood—

Goodbye forever

unspoken through

greyhound glass.

Palm shadows

swallowed

precious memories

and one-way suitcases.

The Florida heat

tasted saltier

as Donna Lewis's

"I Love You Always Forever"

complemented the ride home.

Mother reassured me,

“It's gonna be ok kid.”

She lied.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

How dark is it 

in your coffin of despair,

in that hole you dug deeper

when you brought a shovel 

to your pity party?

It's quite disorienting, isn’t it;

wallowing in the corner, 

collecting filth and muck,

and complaining about 

the wetness of morning dew?

Oh, poor you,

Your body convulses — 

a self-induced seizure.

You knee-Jerk,

clawing at the crumbling edges

of your bottomless pit

with an interminable shiver.

You choose misery

over action,

expecting the roots to grab hold, 

and praying they will drag you out —

a welfare state of mind. 

You fail to realize

that you’re merely five feet under, 

yet refuse to stand tall enough to see it.