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  • Writer's pictureartahammer


As I wondered weak and weary

Future bleak with vision bleary

Resin leak, my fingers smeary, wiped them upon the van door

Nodding, I was nearly napping

While driving, as well as crapping

Slap-happy my face was slapping, when I heard familiar snore

“Wake the fuck up” sputtered, rapping, “or break the fuck up, Señor!”

Shaken I was to the core

Got the scrip in mid-December

Hard as it is to remember

Consciousness this does dismember, makes the interesting a bore

Try to keep my head in focus

Not baffled by hocus pocus

Cannabis, it isn’t crocus, that the strangers call to score

Smart phone once again will stoke us, as the clientele seeks more

Deliver, as they implore

A call from number unlisted

Unknown address, still insisted

No longer could be resisted, I undertook my livery chore

Along a dark road unridden

To a neighborhood I’m bidden

Seeking domicile that’s hidden, unsure just what is instore

Cowardice has been forbidden on the dark paths I explore

Loathe the craven, evermore

Still my nostrils fairly dripping

Consciousness in and out slipping

Brain-fog like unpleasant tripping, skipping up to the front door

Before I can commence knocking

It opens, after unlocking

Creakingly like a cat hocking, something grim upon the floor

Sultry with a hint of mocking, appeared a terrifying whore

Said her name was Elanor

The fantasy’s at least an eight

A six will do at a great rate

But less belongs not on the plate, and she was at the best a four

Realistically a three

And even I have dignity

Lest I’m cast ignominy, reputation not restore

As she fixed her gaze on me, to die from, not to die for

“Come on in,” said Elanor

Now my heart was fairly racing

What new hell would I be facing

Some things are quite hard replacing, some losses we can’t ignore

Following her fat ass walking

Squirting out of corset stocking

Cellulite side to side rocking, a little mouth puke, insides sore

Distantly I heard her talking, walking down the corridor

“You’ve earned a tip,” said Elanor

Told her that my joy is service

Couldn’t help but feeling nervous

Sometimes our deeds don’t deserve us, mixing up the metaphor

Her fragrance truly disgusting

Green slime around the eye crusting

And below her hips were thrusting, beneath panties something more

Now the little tadger busting, out proclaiming caveat emptor

Not returning anymore

Awoke in a lot for parking

Shaken by a vile cur barking

Only to find my phone harking, calling focus to the fore

Through the windshield headlights gleaming

All the terror and blaspheming

Turns out I was fever dreaming, once again senses restore

The voice in my head screaming, enraged as a muted roar “Poemethazine” and nothing more

12/22/22 Arturo Hammer

© 2022 ArtAHammer

(A writing challenge to incorporate Promethazine into a gothic horror framework, like Poe)

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