Monday, March 7, 2022

Death Comes to Market Street by Daniel S. Irwin

What the Hell?  Oh, Death, great.
What a relief.  For a moment,
I thought you were one of those
Annoying Goth-types in a black robe.
Well, what is it?  You know, I’m busy.
Fact is, I really don’t have time for this.
Don’t you dare raise your scythe to me.
Don’t you know who I am?  Oh, you do.
Look, let’s be reasonable.  Why don’t you
Just come back next Thursday or Friday,
In forty or fifty years.  Or not at all.
Bloody Hell, you’ve got a cold touch.
Let go of my hand.  Ha, ha, ha.
Are those fingers or chicken bones?
Sorry, a little sarcasm there.  Really
It was more facetious than sarcastic.
You know that I have a lot to do.
Agreed, so have you.  We’re both busy.
I’m just asking for a little more time.
Go tend a war, a famine, or something.
If you want something to do right now,
May I suggest my asshole of a neighbor.
No one can stand him, he’s really a jerk.
He hot rods up and down the street.
He’s always running the stop signs.
Couldn’t he kiss a tree or something?
Go make a quick visit to the hospital.
Oh, you were just there.  Any takers?
This thing is just out of the question.
I haven’t had a life-ending accident.
I don’t have any physical maladies.
In fact, I’m a specimen of prefect health.
Besides, I’m just finishing eating.
Care to join me?  Excellent cuisine.
These are really the tastiest mushrooms
I’ve ever come across in the woods.  Yum.




Daniel S. Irwin, a native of Sparta, Illinois.  Retired military.  Dudeist priest.  Dedicated heathen. Work published in over one hundred magazines and journals world wide.  Founder of The Hardened Sailors’ School of Vulgar Vernacular (now disbanded). Latest work can be found at/in Horror, Sleaze, Trash Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, Cajun Mutt, The Rye Whiskey Review.  




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