Alex Garr


The Dead Man's Rant - Poem by Alex Garr

Ow. Ouch. Crap. OW! Damn that hurts! Holy rusted metal, Batman!
OWWW!
It felt like a million ants were climbing up my feet. I knew it couldn't be ants though because
ants wouldn't hurt this much, not even those red suckers.
I could feel the heat so I knew it had to be fire. Damn.
They were burning me alive. Certainly puts a damper on my day. Damn.
I wish I could see who was doing this to me but my eye sockets were filled with some sort
of powder rather than eyeballs and
the powder burned, but nowhere near as bad as the
flames climbing their way up my legs.
I think they had reached my thighs but it was so damn difficult to tell.
The pain screwed up my entire nervous system. Speaking of which,
why is it called the nervous system? I mean, it's not like
having the system makes me—

Okay yup I'm going to hell. I mean
I already knew I was, but I feel like this is the kicker.
Praise Satan, hallowed aren't thy name, forgive me for I haven't sinned.
Loljk I have.
But seriously.
This was awful.
Well actually it was spectacular.
The smell reminds me of a pig crusted in
honey and herbs turning over a fire pit. It was so appetizing.
But then I realized what I was smelling.
As it turns out, I currently let off an aroma similar to roasted pork.
But the reason why I'm going to hell is because I actually liked the smell. I could feel
my mouth begin to water an instant before the heat
evaporated the saliva. Gods, I hope that whoever's killing me didn't notice
(that's considering I'm even being watched) .
Dammit.
I mean I had smelled roasting meat before but never roasting me!
How was I supposed to know? Well this sucks.
Does that make me a cannibal? Hm. I'm curious if—

AAAAAEEEEEEEYYYOOOOOWWWWW! ! ! ! ! ! !
Oh my god ohmygodohmygodohmydog.
That is some serious pain. Sweet Baby Jesus and the Apostle Band.
Those are without a doubt my testicles catching fire. Great balls of fire!
I screamed for help but remembered a nanosecond
too late that they had cut out my tongue
so it just came out as a moan, a groan, Al Capone's on his own.
What?
Damn.
I hope the ladies don't mind me being a little well done, if you know what I mean. Wink wink.
Speaking of which, who am I even talking to?
Well clearly my subconscious, right? Must be. Who else?
Darn.

I wish someone could be writing all this down. Everyone knows
that a person's last thoughts are his greatest.
What if I come up with something so super cool that it will cure cancer or AIDS or
duck faces? My wiener was still flaming away nicely, though.
And don't think that the pain is nothing. Let me tell you
(yes, the mysterious you) ,
that it really hurts. And I had gone through some pretty tough stuff, too.
Like there was this one time, I'm not sure
exactly when, but there was this one time where I did this
thing and ended up in the hospital for a long time as they dug
out the bullets and I had to do some physical therapy stuff. I thought that that had hurt.
But that was nothing compared to this.
You know that feeling you get in your stomach when someone gets you in the family jewels?
(I'm assuming you're a guy, O Mysterious You, because you must be my kind-of-sub-
conscious and why would that be a woman?)
Well imagine that kind of terrible pain, now double it.
Have someone pull them and scrunch them and gnaw on them a bit and then maybe you'll
begin to understand the sort of pain I'm currently going through.
Or better yet, light them on fire.
Go for it, I sextuplet-dark-dog-fudge-dare you. Even though I don't have eyes, I still
(unfortunately) have a sense of touch,
even if it is a tad screwed up at this point.
So when the flames reached my arms, I could feel the epidermis
split open and reveal some
muscle beneath. I could
feel the blood pouring out, and that had such an odd
sensation, probably because it was being heated.

Good grief, Charlie Brown, is this ever going to end? I'm tired of this pain. I just want it to end. Why is it taking so damn long?
I'm pretty sure they dumped some fluid on
me in a certain way so the fire
would start at my feet and reach my head last. But why hasn't
that happened yet? I've been screaming
(moaning, groaning, Al Caponing)
in agony for at least the past ten minutes. I know
that fire doesn't take that long to fully consume. And
if they added on a bit of their own fuel, then it should definitely be done.
Unless my brain is processing
information at superhighway
speeds.
And why wouldn't it? I'm sure my
brain knows just as well as I do that it only has a few more
(hours, seconds, nanoseconds)
moments left.
And then what happens? When the flames reach my brain, will I still have semi-coherent
thought? Will you still be able to hear me? Or am I just thinking to myself?
Hell, I'll just go with the first option. It's more comforting when you have someone to go with. Dammit this is terrible.
And what happens if I can still think as clearly as I'm thinking—

FUDGEMONGERS! OH GOD, WHY?
WHY NOW? ?
Son of a nutcracker!
My nostrils had their own special burning
sensation from the bits of
smoke and
fire and
whatnot that they had just inhaled.
I coughed to get some
breath back but it
was no use. Everything
just goes straight into my mouth
each time I take a breath.
So that's what my ashes taste like.
Well it seems like this is the end. The fire will get me soon, but I'm
pretty
sure I'll die from suffocation/burning lung syndrome
before that happens.
Poop.
Well it's certainly been nice talking to you.
Adios. Ciao. Au revoir.
I hope your end won't be as painful as mine will probably be. It should be a jolly good time
when the flames start to lick at the epicenter of the nervous system.
Hey, speaking of which, why is it called the
nervous system? I might be a tad angry,
certainly in pain,
but not nervous. So then why—

? ? ? ? ? ? ? ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ? ! ? ! ? ! ? ! ? ! ! ! ! ? ! ‽‽‽‽‽‽‽‽‽‽! ! ! ! ! ☭! !


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Poem Submitted: Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Poem Edited: Thursday, October 4, 2012


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