THE DARK

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 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

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

The radio 

plays the same song as yesterday,

as the day before,

and the day before that.

I’m waterboarded by a tsunami

over and over 

because I refuse to forget 

what you sound like,

and I’ll continue to suffocate without you,

and I’ll continue to listen to my favorite song.  

©2024 Chris Sadhill

Endless forest in a natural state,

we douse the flame.

Too often we intervene

Conserving and preserving without foresight, but

burning is crucial, and historic.  

We must watch the flames eat away the past

and clear the deadfall for new growth.

So, let it burn.

and save the water for drinking.

©2024 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

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

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 the hole,

you dug even deeper

when you brought a shovel

to your pity party,

then sealed your tomb shut

with nails made of thin air?

I bet it's quite disorienting, isn’t it?

You wallow in the corner

covered in filth, mud, and muck,

and complain about the wetness of morning dew

with an interminable shiver.

Your body convulses—

a self-induced seizure

while you knee-jerk,

clawing at the crumbling edges

of your infinite pit of shame

and expecting the roots

to grab hold of you

to drag you out.

A welfare state of mind,

you lazy fuck.

You fail to realize

you’re merely five feet under,

yet refuse to stand tall to see it.

If only you did,

you’d observe

the eastern dawn once more,

garnering its warmth

as it nourishes your soul

like Sundays

and fresh orange juice.

You’d taste the breeze through your skin

as you fly with the hummingbirds

hungry for nectar,

then inhale the Iris blooms.

You could climb out

of that hole, you dug

of your own free will,

and enjoy a picnic on the cemetery lawn.

Only then would you notice

my hole has already been filled and mowed over.

© 2023 Chris Sadhill 

Dampened eyes

wielding steel

wondering

if temporary pain

releases others.

Swordplay on skin,

biblical sin

cut short by

fortuitous knocks—

cutter flinging.

Short visit vibes

welcomed in.

Distracted gaze becoming

stainless locked.

My poker face

loses every chip.

Awkward drawer return

both knowing

but never discussing

why he stayed.

©2023 Chris Sadhill

I think

the condom stuck up my ass,

the fact I’m handcuffed

to a motel bedpost

and that there are enough pills

strewn about me to fill a sky full of rainbows,

all while my triple-stacked raging hard-on

is beginning to hurt

says it all.

I had one hell of a

no holds bar

unabridged

never looking back

wild fucking ride

of a night,

but that’s not what concerns me.

It’s the whore’s head

still attached to my dick

and separated from her body

that has me alarmed

because this is the second time this has happened

in a week

and I am beginning to think

I have a drinking problem.   

©2023 Chris Sadhill