A Psychopath Walks Into A Bar But All the People Are Made of Knives
and he’s looking for the pocket knife
he lost as a child. He had been searching now
for so long, it seemed silly to keep going,
but he was persistent, and this place was his last hope.
razor, who tipped him off
to the possible whereabouts,
while recounting whimsically,
for the hundredth time, his fondest cuts
and magnificent bloodletting.
Now, listening to the butter knives
guffawing at their own jokes—he
hated how there was no nuance
to their talk; they were blunt
but never came to the point—
he scanned the room, expectantly.
He watched the pairing knives at the bar,
staring longingly at their reflections
unaware of the chef’s knife
looking to refill their drinks.
but big, unwieldy and ultimately, untrustworthy,
and if he was honest with himself
He could feel the steak knives circling
flitted around the spilled absinthe and
off in the corner, solemnly staring
reflecting on their incisions and indecisions
while the vegetable knives
meditated on the underlying oneness
of this diced and fragmented world.
tall and serrated, talked
of brotherhood and community
hoping to bring God to the many
here who’d been living so long
a group of old pocket knives
and switchblades practiced Doo-Wop
their blades oxidized and grey.
He moved slowly to where they were singing
his old Winchester pocket knife
that it had not been seen
at the bar in quite some time.
He turned slowly to leave,
grabbing the newest looking switchblade
sticking it in his pocket—
it would provide some support tonight,
for a date he intended to keep.
