Scott C. Holstad

when you wake up

nocturnal goings on
like thunder dreams of
a dark, dank hunger,
like when the sperm
hits the back of your 
throat, you blink &
swallow, like bitter
tendrils of ghostly hands
forcing you apart, like
the boogeyman hiding
in the eternal closet,
waiting & wanting  
you & me too,
   us,
         i,
   me,
knowing he’ll wait
& strike, tearing
& gnashing in a
horrorland violence
of murderscene, 
& flimsy, going
too hard & fast
nomore
life
like a giant
jagged hole
art dreams
in the head,
       your head,
until it hurts
    & you wake
        you wake
        you wake
to sweatsoaked
vision of cum
dried gash, having
black bush in the
hand worth two
birds at least,
panting & heaving
               &
vowing and knowing

***

Originally published in Driver’s Side Airbag