Dearest Wormwood,
Like ketchup and mustard, or vultures and roadkill, Valentine's Day and Halloween complement each other perfectly. In an age when love is rape and lust is love, celebrate Valentine's Day this year by taking your mortal beloved on a ride in a 19th-century hot air balloon over the pre-apocalyptic horror movie unfolding at your feet. Crack open a bottle of champagne as you float safely above the warring zombie hordes in luxury and style. Toast the ever-dissolving distinction between love and lust, ketchup and mustard, and horror and love as the mob of angry, hedonistic pleasure-seekers tear each other to shreds over minor disagreements and perceived infractions of the ever-shifting, nonexistent social order you've gone to great lengths to destroy. Hear the vicious, guttural use of the word "love" in the warcry of the hateful and the damned. Observe the copious quantities of blood spilled at the feet of the AI commanders in the field. Bask in the glow of the loving words of hate hurled like flaming projectiles toward your carriage from your subjects down below. Indulge in an executive laugh at the expense of whomever you please. Remember, in the future, Rosemary's Baby is a chick flick. Just make sure to don your galoshes before you make that phone call.
Happy Halloween!
Affectionately yours,
Uncle Screwtape
Cheshire Moon
When the red curtains rise
over acid-wash skies
and the veil of blood has lifted
from your bruised and swollen eyes
And the sunlight bites like a dirty needle
and the hammers in your head
make you want to curl up into a fetal
position at the foot of your bed
Dead or alive,
the look on your face
is like a creepy little town
lost in outer space
So come down with me to the basement
we are the height of human amazement
we'll sail away on a hot air balloon
into the gaping maw
of a Cheshire Moon
When you pass this way, be wary
the woods are dark and scary
and I love you just as much
as is fashionably necessary
And our love is cold and empty
but how awfully nice of you to tempt me
and if the stars should lose their twinkle
there will be blood in the inkwell
So come down with me to the basement
we are the height of human amazement
we'll sail away on a hot air balloon
into the gaping maw
of a Cheshire Moon
And the birds will softly sing,
"O death,
where is thy sting?"
And the clouds will start to cry,
but they won't remember why
And the trees
will kiss the ground,
and the town will finally be still
(after the flames have had their fill)
And the wind, ever joyously,
will scream,
"Farewell at last
to the neverending dream!"
And mosquitoes
and flies
will say their goodbyes
to the dead bodies in the ditch
on which their livelihood relies
And the skies
will all turn gray,
and everyone will say,
"Everything is lovely,
and everything
is gay
in this beautiful,
dying world
today"
©2009 Nathan Payne
