Brunswick Georgia, a small coastal community that resides at the furthest point west on the east coast, and my home since birth has just morphed into a veritable boogieman for my neighbors and myself.
My main concern right now is that I’m beginning to believe it has turned me into a boogieman as well. I feel the small snap of my sanity break, like a muffled cough in the dark. I smell the ozone aroma of lightnings-to-come…
I begin to see myself doing unspeakable things to you. I see our town’s twenty-year veteran coronor coming upon the crime scene when I am done and puking himself dry and beyond. His nightmares chase him like rabid dogs to an early grave…
The Eastern Seaboard quakes as I dream in blood and guts graffiti on South Georgia pines. I long for swamp justice. I want to feel what amounts to a gallon of your blood collective drying and tightening on my skin. I feel it caking and cracking, turning me into a vision of an early Stephen King novel.
I want to set you on fire, then put you out… set you on fire, then put you out.
Set you on fire, then put you out.
I want to skin you alive. I want to moonwalk over bits of gray. And of course I want to rub God’s face in it.
You inspire me to be creative in the worst possible ways. You have turned my hate for you into an art form.
I watch the child’s funeral procession, so large that it chokes the commute of a city 70,000 strong and I think of how he got in the back of that car and I want to cut his name into you.
I see the town collective gather around this family’s loss and surround him like some half-assed shield. I feel the hurt his older brother has and I want you know about loss. I want to wear your mother fucking entrails. I want to play in your reindeer games.
I know the members on this board are growning tired of posts like these, and I apologize. This was so close to home and hurts so much, and I tried to refrain.