Nailed It
by Stephen Philip Druce
I knew a bloke
that nailed his asshole to a tree.
I speculated
as to the source of inspiration
that had prompted him to do such a thing.
I think he
must have been ambling freely through
the forest one night, when suddenly he heard the
sound
of wolves howling from a carcass of eagle claws
that spiked
a coyote prowl in swooning pause.
The sound of a
whistling ice wind plummet - a fleeing deer
streaking across the strewn summit and the jagged
frontier,
the sound of
night owls in starved repetoire without
an instrument to strum, for a sincere symphony to
sooth
the lonely scars on the hearts of their beating
drum.
He must have
gazed up at the night sky - picked a star and
wondered what it meant, and then as if to tell
him it flickered
like a signal - like a message sent.
A star so
silent - so lonely lit, and he could never touch
it.
But it must
have touched him - with an epiphany.
He must have thought to himself - "I think I'll
pop down
to the hardware store in town - buy a hammer and
some nails
and nail my asshole to that tree".
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