Nightmare Sally
Nightmare Sally sallies forth,
in her fist the neck of a whisky fifth.
She’s come to drag you back
into the castle,
deep down into that oubliette
you never seem to forget.
She humps you up onto her back.
Drifts over the moat.
Draws the bridge to all that jazz
that zips you up.
Swipes you into the castle keep.
Hands you over to a nun
in the habit of all or none.
Sally’s job done,
Sister X be the one
cram you in a basket,
wheel you down into the dark
till you become cool as ice.
Sister X begs to help you out,
fix you up
an early release
into a darker hole of colder ice.
“Fuck it in a bucket,”
the nun clarions
down into the pit;
her words,
from a thousand yards above,
like bb-big hail,
pelt your scalp.
“Go, go, oh my Lord,
go, go, fuck that duck!
Kick that bucket over,
and off the slate suck it!”
You wind up in a microwave,
freezer leftover thawed
faster than a speeding bullet.
Once heated hot as hell,
spatula-ed onto a plate hotter yet,
you are bloody quick
served up to the Lord,
his hunger tonight keen as a guillotine.
Never ask Sister X
why she goes only by the letter.
Better the unknown let her be.
Anytime ask Sally
to kick the guts and the liver,
way out past your mouth.
Now you live inside the Lord,
you get a fifth every hour.
Each fifth raised in a barn of kazoos.
You also get to snooze on a rotisserie,
forever roasted slowly to a T.
Don’t go there,
never go anywhere with Nightmare Sally.
Horror Sleaze Trash 