Wherever you go,
let your feet leave lasting imprints,
not to be washed away
by tomorrow’s tide.
Turn every object you touch
into something special,
not just another trinket
from the five and dime.
And plant the seeds of inspiration,
into every mind,
you happen to meet.
Sign your name BOLDLY,
make it monstrous,
off the edges of the page,
and always use permanent ink.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
A Spa for the Tortured
Instead of cucumbers
I place pickles over my eyes
because I prefer to think that self-induced agony
makes me stronger and more resilient.
I am a glutton for punishment,
so, I lay back and let the brine work its way in.
Never wincing—Never offering a single reaction to its burn,
but my retinas are on fire.
The cohesion of pickle juice and natural saline
works its way toward my brain
like a starving parasite eating its last meal.
I welcome this torture
because I find comfort in pain
and already know the sting will fade away in time,
or, I’ll just become too numb to feel it.
After all, pain is more familiar than love,
which for me is like love,
because it’s always there for me even when I never need it.
I deeply appreciate its loyalty and commitment,
and though it’s not reciprocated, it’s unconditional.
I light a candle to unwind.
A flickering flame soothes my unrest.
Lavender releases from the wax prison it was held in,
but still, I prefer the Sulphur of a match
over a deceased flower’s final excrement
because the aroma of hell is how I relax.
Dead Flowers and hell. They’re both the same anyways, right?
Everything revolves around death and ends in death.
Even while the oil bleeds out of an unsuspecting aromatic herb,
its beautiful aroma is squeezed from its last breath.
So, everything is resolved in death.
There is only one place for us in the end. For me, it’s hell.
So, I decided to get there sooner by living in one.
I wonder if they can make a candle that smells like hell.
Do you think they can extract the essence of a decaying body
and place it in a wax jar like they did that Lavandula?
I flip on a tune,
to set the mood with my favorite soundscape—
A waterfall crashing into a rainforest.
Now that’s a sound I can drown myself in.
It spills down from three thousand feet above
and smothers me like I'm being waterboarded by nature.
How interesting that water gives life, yet can so easily take it away.
Angel Falls is not my guardian protector,
but it is a fallen angel I must protect and guard
because she lifts me up closer to heaven than I’ve ever been,
then drops me back down to earth where I guess I belong. For now.
I place a warm rag over my face to simulate the Amazonian climate,
Then turn on the faucet to full blast
so, I can practice how to breathe.
No gills mean there is a struggle,
but a struggle is what I crave.
With every gulp of oxygen I lose, my existence fades,
and I start to appreciate all the small things a little more.
Who knew being closer to death,
helps you love life a little better?
Why can’t I just get there on my own instead of forcing it?
Am I fucked up for living this way,
or is living this way how I fuck?
The timer blares a turbulent cry,
and my deprivation is complete.
While the tank opens to birth me back into reality,
I can’t help but wonder,
If I am reflecting on thoughts of death because I want it,
or if it’s how I cope with knowing the fate of humanity.
The salty bath I floated in slides off me like water repels oil,
like cheaters repel love.
and like humans repel humans.
I rinse off my secret thoughts in the shower,
dry off self-hatred with a towel,
then put on a costume of lies so I may enter the world,
and on the way out I schedule another visit
to my torture spa.
I can’t wait to live again,
Don’t Dunk Cookies in Rotten Milk
Fortune doesn’t come to those
Ignorant enough to believe that
No one is irreplaceable.
Despite one's greatest efforts
Even the most prestige will suffer the
Ragnarök if one becomes cancer upon the host’s skin.
For cancer must be cut out early to prevent the spread of its fatal disease.
Understanding this sooner will make it easier for everyone.
© 2023 Chris Sadhill
Where the Sun Doesn’t Shine
where the sun doesn’t shine
and lay me to rest
under the old oak tree,
where we once
stole my first kiss,
loved to read
to my illiterate brain
even though it never
made me smarter—
I always daydreamed
to your voice.
I always fell asleep
to your words.
I’ll gladly take root
in that tree,
for it holds
the only memories
of my life
the memories of
a few men before me.
It’ll just be me
and a couple of guys
reliving our best times
falling in love
© 2023 Chris Sadhill