A small ember burns.
A wind ignites the flame,
Fueling the burning craving.

The demons start to wake,
Crawling out from within.
Reality slips away.
It's now to late.

SNIFF...
SNIFF...
SNIFF again.

Now fully consumed,
The white lines,
The demons.
They now control me

Lars lifts opens the toilet seat. The hinge squawks and he mimics the sound with his mouth. A dumb smile folds out on his face like someone unrolling a beach towel. He sits without dropping his pants or underwear. The cops are just about to leave through the screen door. Maggie offers a departing sacrament of right out of the oven of crispy flakey Pillsbury biscuits. They wave their hands parallel to the ground refusing. Maggie pulled the biscuits out too early. The bottoms are tan and dimensional but the tops are sloppy. They look like they have a glaze but they don’t have a glaze. They are pasty but still hot to the touch. The pan is hot. Maggie is wearing maroon oven mitts. One of the cops gets his foot snagged on the throw rug. They walk with their heads down but don’t notice the curled edges of the throw rug. They notice a black pug named Roger instead and nearly avoid fumbling over him. The cops scatter outside quickly like ducklings crossing the street. Lars’ dumb smile lingers and he laughs with a shushing lisp. He reaches between his legs into the toilet bowl. His hand disturbs the water. His nose is bleeding. Maggie closes the doorwall after the cops leave. The cops left the screen open. Maggie reopens the doorwall, closes the screen, shakes her head, and then closes the doorwall again. The kitchen is humming with improper wires. The light is electric pastel blue. The linoleum is too ***** to sleep on. Maggie’s ******* can be seen through her shirt. Lars wipes his nose with his arm and shoulder. He is hunched digging into the toilet bowl. He pulls out a baggie with a twist tie on top. The baggie looks reused. Maggie enters under the frame of the door and her lips roll out like a beach towel. The ******* in the baggie is very very dry.

He was driving down ******* Boulevard
He had killers in the car
He drove with a blank stare as the killers put their clips in their pistols
His soul was the color red stained with blood from all the murders he had ordered and committed
The car came to a stop
He pointed at a white house.

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

Her lips.
A poet's *******.
I crave them
In the most
Euphoric way.
I tremble from
The pink electricity
That passes
Between
Them and my own.
A high that dizzies
My head follows,
As I crash into
Her tongue.
An art so addictive
That I must immediately
Write it down.
Romance fills my pen
As the ink remembers
Every stain
That her lips
Left on mine.

He was driving down ******* Boulevard He had killers in the car
He drove with a blank stare as the killers put their clips in their pistols
His soul was the color red stained with blood from all the murders he had ordered and committed
The car came to a stop He pointed at a white house

Written by Keith Edward Baucum

The day I took *******
It felt like a glorious game.
The day I took *******
I thought I had slain
A dragon.
The day I took *******
It felt like a glorious game.
The day I took *******
I felt the pain
Of a gun.
The day I took *******
It felt like a glorious game.
The day I took *******
The walls I did stain
With blood.
The day I took *******.
It felt like a glorious game.
It wasn't.