"Leave Your Body and Soul at the Door"


Last year for Halloween I was Willy Wonka.



This year I had never been more confused with what to be—and usually I know my costume by the time Halloween has come the year before.  I  had always dreamed of doing a scary one like on 'Roseanne'; my favorites are Darlene's. 





So I really had my heart set on prom scene Carrie, but now I must wait another year for that one; the long peach velvet dress in my closet just has to wait for its bucket of pig blood.  


Then, the offer to join some 'League of Their Own' ladies arose, but I had to turn it down.
I had to dress up after my namesake and be...

...LIZZZZAAAAA!!!!!!!

☠   ☠   ☠

Now, as always, here are some writings—HALLOWEEN themed:

Burnt chocolate smells atrocious


WANTED: OWNER of CHOCOLATE FACTORY
KIDNAPS FOUR KIDS and FLEES with  OOMPA LOOMPAS

“Never again will I sink my teeth into an ever-lasting gobstopper.”
London panics,
piling upon the flooded streets,
filling the cobblestones with pouring sweat.

Charlie sounds over a speaker,
“All is alright.  All is in order.
The children will be fetched and prepared
and served back to the public on a cookie platter.”
An uproar surges from the crowd below,
causes a riot to cluster, to start shaking the gates.
Clumps of children climbing rattle the cage
before the penned-in psycho prison.
London sings in unison,
“We want Wonky Wacko Willy Wonka!”
“He has fled,” cries Charlie’s pubescent reply.

Charlie in charge now,
he cannot seize the oncoming mob.
They crack down the bricks of the building
all at once.  The chocolate river spews
from the nose of a kid chortling
and choking on milk.
“Damn shame he sailed off in that Great Glass Elevator,
now that I am left with nothing but a pending arrest.
No wonder he plated our chocolate with golden tickets!
Why, he needed someone to take the blame!”

☠   ☠   ☠

Hugh Morris

(professional miscreant/humorous mortician/
devious Desairologist) has a morbid vocation
at the Haunted House of Humility.

In the humidity of the morgue,
Hugh Morris, masking makeup,
makes faces for the dead:

* Melting mannequin mouths
* Protruding organs
* Pupils full of puss and maggots.

Moronic Morris, Horrifying Hugh
powders Mr. Hearing’s hue.  In the casket
Hearing lays, hand over hand over chest.

While mixing muddy pastel-palette-pigments
left in vials to the lower shelf,
Hugh Morris laughs in the wrong direction;

Hugh Morris’ hyena snicker spews
out from his snorting snout as he drools
snot into the immobile maroon hearse.

And as the hearse lowers down where flowers sleep,
pouncing to the corpse’s coffin,
popping hinges off their screws while coughing,
maniacal Hugh sneers The polish, the polish; I forgot to apply the polish!

Hugh Morris chortles while panting; another man must be planted to rest.

☠   ☠   ☠
                        
The keys rustle in her palm.  Fumbling knob sputters on half sowed in screws; she locks the door, spinning the knob for reassurance of the close.  She makes the stairs, dismounts them, views an eye through the peephole in her inner-eye.  Her keys mingle with their chain, reverberating a cling-clang clinking against the confined stairway’s acoustics. She scoops up the metal in her palm to stop the sound, but the tinkling still sings.  Stinging the air she listens to dog collars scraping against each other upstairs behind her—because she assumes the sound is a dog descending.  The jingling is racing to the heel of the stairs so she gallops with its stride, trying to beat the disembodied (dismembered) dog to the door.  Panic frantic furious, she races down the mountain stairs—always finding each step in an unavoidable decline.  One flight more and the pitter-patter speeds, tolling as an urgent bell does to alarm its town.  Her hand extends before she is halfway off the last landing: she anticipates the noise wrapping behind her back and suffocating her in the squeeze.  She twists the door handle until it swings open; to her dismay the trip was for nothing—the scare too for that matter: the mailman is still packaging in our pre-packaged post, and slacking as he yaps to oncoming neighbors.  Never a dull day’s work!  Pivoting, semi-disappointed, she thinks about riding up the same set of stairs; but staircase X is dangerous. She discontinues that thought as the rattling exiting engulfs her brain.  The second staircase will just have to do.  Ascending, her ears again perceive the piercing ringing climbing; she panics, asthma clogging her arteries, lungs, pelvis, chest and throat.  Her body is closing in—two spiky walls clutching their thief, splattered guts dripping off the spokes in the ceiling.  Scrounging for air, gulping and trying to talk to ensure herself that she can still speak, a barking consumes the claustrophobic space.  Should she turn back now?  And what if that dog is crying out for help?  Yelp yelp yelping —but what if the dog is a big one?  She remembers the dog that bit her, as it leaped at her armpit and snagged the skin between where the pit starts and her shoulder ends, as its body extended like a black baby bear seeking prey.  Suddenly she hears bouncing bounding up the rungs, she stumbles and falls, stubbing her knee on the edged side of the top step.  The barking is louder, nearer, and the tonality is yowling.  She is shedding snuffles, fetching saliva so as to breathe and wail, but she is unable to express either.  Paws are scratching the stairs in their fury, scrambling while clambering to where she sits.  She stretches her feet, urging her body to stand, she is one floor away from her own; she is crawling on her hands, scaling each pace as a ladder.  As the teeth of her keys grind the meat of her hand, the knot by her ribs gropes for breath, and as the clattering turns to a permanent jangle—the door refuses to budge.  Her throat shuts off its lamplight.  Everything is tightening.  

☠   ☠   ☠
I must leave again, so here is my favorite Halloweenie song for you to indulge in, in my absence.



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